So that was how to end. Not only is the journey. Everything.
My killer crept carefully up to dominate the dark of night. In his hand a hunting knife with a blade 6in long.
The scene of the crime: a remote, dilapidated cottage extended by the highway through the desert in Azerbaijan. The owner of the hut, dirt poor, had invited to stay there for stealing my bike and good.
Disappeared. Nobody will ever know the house, where and why. This effort alone on a bicycle all the way to India. Which obviously stupid idea.
There have been stung to death. It is quite obvious. But forget all within the context requires a few months, will be back in time.
Back in the second week of March last year, when a nervous 40-two years, the child was right next to the ferry to Belgium on the ground.
Along for the Ride a brilliant Dawes Galaxy, which was recently completed for about 700 and the first bike I have from my teenage years, he has bought. The framework has cut a series of four Ortlieb panniers. The interior of the pods: a tent, sleeping bag, a spirit stove, a change of clothes, some spare parts and not much room for anything else.
Why? For reasons best summed up by Robert Louis Stevenson, who was as big as a globe-trotter, was a writer.
Everyone was in front of C, or at least most of India C for nine months and promising 6000 mile adventure. It was a feeling of pure joy. The sun was honored again, the first hot spring, and certainly bodes well.
As a beautiful afternoon in the week in London, you'll find me locked in an office. But here I was in the picturesque medieval town of Bruges, dinner at leisure on a freshly baked baguette and cheese. What is clear to a brilliant idea. The Nobel prizes were awarded at a lower price.
The initial euphoria would soon drain away. Five days later I was alone in a drab hotel in a drab suburb of Sedan, a drab town in northern France. At ￡60 a night, the hotel was well beyond my budget, but my badly aching knees would no longer straighten out properly. All day I had been promising myself the luxury of a night in a real bed, and this was the only place available.
Exhausted, but unable to sleep, I calculated how far I had cycled. At 50 miles a day, it worked out at less than three per cent of the way. If only quitting were an option – but that would mean having to emigrate out of sheer embarrassment. My first report for the Telegraph Travel website made no mention of this miserable state of mind. Reading the article the next day, I found that the paper had labelled my endeavour to reach India as "ambitious". Yes, that was just about spot on.
With the benefit of hindsight, these initial traumas were a necessary rite of passage. There is simply no way to replicate the effort required to pedal six or seven hours a day, except to pedal for six or seven hours a day, which means you might as well be on holiday rather than in a gym.
Fitness levels gradually improved as the days, then weeks, passed. In Germany's Black Forest it rained solidly for 48 hours. Then it began to snow. The lack of guesthouses until April, the start of the tourist season, meant camping in forests, under railway bridges, in derelict buildings. The trick was in the timing: too early and I risked being discovered and possibly ordered to move on; too late and I would be setting up the tent in darkness.
It was so cold that, one night, my water bottles froze inside the tent. The intention of setting off through Europe this early in the year, however, was to avoid Central Asia's far harsher winter climate much later in the journey.
From its source in Donaueschingen, a small town in southern Germany, the Danube acted as my companion for the next seven weeks, leading me across seven countries. Crossing into Austria, it flowed through the beautiful, wine-producing Wachau valley, then into Vienna, where I spent three relaxing days, my first proper break.
By now the sun was out constantly and camping became less of a chore. The woolly hat, waterproofs and thermals were happily packed away into the panniers, not to be seen again for a long time. Onwards the river wound to Slovakia's picturesque capital, Bratislava, and Hungary's first city, Budapest.
Cycling was becoming like a job, but one stripped of dull routine. The joy came in never knowing what would happen next or whom I might meet. Walter, a 71-year-old German, was sitting by the roadside just a couple of miles beyond the Croatian border. Having flown the communist East at the age of 18, he had fallen so profoundly in love with freedom that he had spent more than half the intervening years travelling the world by bicycle. This time he was cycling to Turkey.
A role model? No, Walter was a little eccentric. We parted company that evening when he insisted on camping in a meadow marked with a skull-and-crossbones sign. Twenty years on from war, this region of Croatia continued to bear the scars, among them uncleared minefields and Vukovar's bombed-out buildings.
Serbia and its surprisingly friendly people; Romania and its deeply unfriendly packs of wild dogs; donkey carts outnumbering cars; shepherds in the fields; women wearing headscarves by village wells; a final farewell to the Danube and south across Bulgaria's undulating countryside.
I cycled into Istanbul during the last week of May, by which time the website had begun to refer to my journey as "intrepid", a definite improvement. Before setting out, I had made Istanbul my fallback destination. From now on, whatever happened, India or not, I could at least hold my head up.
After two glorious weeks in one of the most atmospheric cities on earth, I found the road was calling again. The Black Sea coast seemed the milder route, preferable to going inland or along the Mediterranean. Still, the temperatures regularly hit 90F (32C). Glorious scenery, sleepy fishing villages and wonderfully hospitable people, but steep hill after hill.
One night, suffering from what must have been heatstroke, I woke to find a giant rat inside the gloom of the tent. Despite violent threats it refused to run away, so I picked up a boot and began bashing out its brains. The rat turned out to be my camera case. A group of startled Turkish students spent the rest of the night terrified that a psychopath was camping next door to them on the beach.
The muezzin's call to prayer at 4.45am became the signal to set off cycling. This way I could rest in the shade during the midday heat.
Dire news from Iran: a disputed election, riots, deaths. Obtaining the Iranian visa had been expensive, but a change of plan seemed wise. My knowledge of Georgia was hazy, except that it was the birthplace of Stalin. The tiny cottage where he grew up in a town called Gori had been turned into a museum. Once, pilgrims would have journeyed there from across the Soviet Empire; now the country was pockmarked with disused factories dating from its communist past.
And so to Azerbaijan and the moment when I genuinely thought that death was imminent. You or I probably wouldn't invite into our home a stranger who didn't speak a word of our language. We certainly wouldn't walk in on him during the night while brandishing a weapon. But Shahin, as the man with the hunting knife was called, had decided at about 2am to have a snack, and his stove was inside the back room where I was asleep. The knife was for slicing up some mutton rather than a tourist. Not only had murder or robbery never occurred to him, but nor had the possibility that I might think they had.
It's not usually dangerous to travel in remote places. Often it's surprisingly safe. Time and again, in Muslim countries especially, I would be the recipient of such uncomplicated hospitality.
Nearly a week late, the ferry finally set out across the Caspian Sea to Kazakhstan. This vast country is easily the size of western Europe, but my route took in the merest slither: four days through a rocky desert, with little sign of life except for the occasional camel.
My original plan had not entailed coming this way; finding food and, even more importantly, water had proved a constant worry. Now another road stretched over the border into Uzbekistan and across another, far bigger desert. What if parts were mired in deep sand? The language barrier made it impossible to ask the locals, and earlier searches on the internet had thrown up no information.
Maybe someone had cycled this way before, but if so, he or she had never written about it. Lacking the courage to blaze a trail, I loaded my bicycle on to a train.
In Samarkand, the former capital of Uzbekistan, I walked into a hostel to find four other long-distance cyclists from Europe; the camaraderie was very welcome after I had spent so much time alone. Less welcome was the attention of the authorities in Tashkent, the new capital, where being stopped and ordered to produce my passport was a daily occurrence. Uzbekistan is a police state, but despite the xenophobia of its president-for-life, Islam Karimov, its people were probably the friendliest I met on the trip.
By contrast, Kyrgyzstan was a freer society, but its policemen, although fewer in number, were more corrupt. Arrested for smoking a cigarette, I spent a whole afternoon refusing to pay a bribe before they let me go.
Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan’s capital, became my base for nearly a month, while the Chinese embassy refused to issue a visa unless a guide was hired at $100 a day to drive me everywhere. Allegedly, it was for my own protection. In reality, the 60th anniversary of the communist revolution was approaching, making the authorities paranoid about letting foreigners travel around independently. Once the highly choreographed “celebrations” had passed off, I returned with a bogus hotel booking and flight reservation, and the same embassy official duly stamped my passport.
However, the long enforced lay-off meant it was now late October, and the temperature in Kyrgyzstan was falling sharply. Temporarily out of condition again, I hitched a lift. The BMW had blacked-out windows and belonged to a group of three self-styled gangsters. They were pleasant enough to me, but then one of them pulled a gun on a construction worker who had the temerity to insist that a road through the mountains was closed.
The Karakoram Highway between China and Pakistan passes right alongside a series of peaks rising to 23,000ft (7,000m) – more than five times higher than Ben Nevis. Cycling there in spring when the trees are in full blossom would be a delight. Cycling there in midwinter, when it can be -10F (-23C) and three pairs of socks are no longer enough to prevent your feet from going numb… yes, it was still a delight, but arduous.
Down into the densely populated plains of Pakistan and across the border into India. I had been toying with the idea of ending my journey at the Taj Mahal, which was only 300 miles away now, but nine months had passed and that was long enough. Instead, I spent my last night in Amritsar, inside the Golden Temple, the holiest shrine of Sikhism. Guests are allowed to sleep and eat free at the temple, but alcohol is strictly prohibited. There would be no riotous journey’s-end party, but that didn’t matter any more.
What to make of it all? I’m still not sure. I travelled through 19 countries; met scores of fascinating people of all different types, creeds and backgrounds; witnessed the seasons change close up; experienced some of the best and also some of the worst moments of my life. But it was life lived to the full, with the volume, colour and contrast controls turned up to the maximum.
Maybe when I have saved enough money I will do it again – and that’s something I never expected to be saying when I was lying in agony on a hotel bed in France. Maybe I will fly out to India and begin cycling across the Far East, or head off to South America. Go round the world. Who knows?
Maybe, after reading this, you too will buy a bicycle and set off to somewhere distant on the map. Go on: I dare you.
Quotes from the road
March 10, 2009, Bradford
“It’s going to be fun. Nine months and 6,000 miles of pedalling, sleeping in a tent and cooking on a primus stove. Well, at least I hope it’s going to be fun. India is a long way to go on a bicycle if you’re not enjoying the ride. Insane? Idiotic? For Marco Polo and Lance Armstrong riding together on a tandem, perhaps not. For an only moderately fit 40-year-old office worker, who bought a bike only a few months ago, the enterprise does contain a strong potential for humiliating failure.”
April 14, Passau, Germany
“It’s taken nearly a month, but on the outskirts of the German city of Passau I finally met my first fellow long-distance cyclist. We recognised each other immediately by the amount of clobber we were carrying. I told him of my intended route to Istanbul. Until now I have told everyone that the Turkish city is my destination – India sounds so far away I’m worried that I might not be believed.”
May 11, Drobeta-Turnu Severin, Romania
“Outside an ice-cream parlour a gaggle of girls was dressed in modern fashions, excitedly using mobile phones to take photographs of each other. Opposite, a group of gipsy women walked down the street. The scene seemed an easy contrast between Romania’s haves and have-nots – until the gipsy women climbed into the back of a new Mercedes.”
June 23, Sinop, Turkey
“A rifle and a harpoon gun were hanging from the wall of his rickety shack. Sometimes, however, you have to trust your instincts. Naci was definitely a colourful character, but he seemed all right. In his mid-sixties with a long white beard and a tanned, weather-beaten face, he could have been Ernest Hemingway’s Old Man of the Sea – or Captain Birdseye, at a push.”
July 21, Poti, Georgia
“I look up to see a black sports car coming straight at me. It’s overtaking a van, which, in turn, is overtaking a line of lorries. All this takes place on a blind corner. I swerve off the hard shoulder and on to a grass bank. It soon becomes clear that the 'double overtake’ is quite a common Georgian driving technique.”
August 12, Baku, Azerbaijan
“I crossed the Caspian Sea by boat. The mattress in my cabin looked as though it had been the scene of a previous occupant’s death and decomposition.”
September 1, Samarkand, Uzbekistan
“In Samarkand, the hostel’s communal bathroom was so humid and the squat toilet reeked so foully that the clientele nicknamed it “The Pit”. If you were going to meet another long-distance cyclist, it would probably be at a glamorous place like this.”
September 8, Tashkent, Uzbekistan
“The little drama being played out was an insight into what sort of people thrive in a totalitarian society. Tashkent’s immigration chief seemed to be in charge on the caveman principle that he was bigger and nastier than everyone else in the department. His sidekick, possibly his younger brother, was nearly as imposing, although probably even dimmer.”
September 28, Osh, Kyrgyzstan
“Kyrgyzstan, the nocturnal dreamland of Scrabble players everywhere.”
October 13, Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan
“Do not photograph the guards who stand stock-still outside Bishkek’s Presidential Palace. They have a habit of suddenly jumping angrily to life and pointing their rifles at people.”
December 1, Kashgar, China
“In China, you’re never far away from being told what to do.”
December 8, Tashkurgan, China
“I rested for the night in a Kazakh dwelling, drinking tea flavoured with salty yak milk, sleeping beneath heavy woollen rugs, kept warm by a stove that burns yak dung. It’s a way of life almost unchanged for countless generations. Almost. The eldest daughter eagerly watched a fuzzy black-and-white television set. China’s pop idol contest is showing tonight.”
December 14, Sost, Pakistan
“My accommodation, the One Star Hotel, had awarded itself far too many stars.”
December 19, Amritsar, India
“The hostel’s owner is the inimitable Mr Malik. When I arrived he read my palm and pronounced that I would father two children – a girl called Baby Rosemary and a boy named James Bond.”
The trip was finally over. I felt a strange mixture of relief and disappointment, ecstasy and emptiness. Located in the heart of Amritsar, the Golden Temple a great place for me last night. This is the first temple of the Sikh religion, but everyone is welcome.
