From Dalkey to Delhi

Sean O'Tuathail encounters inhospitable terrain but hospitable people on his journey across Europe and through the Middle East

For 5 or 6 years now I had been on the bike, whether working in Dublin as a courier or traveling abroad. I had cycled throughout Europe, Northern Africa, China and Pakistan. But in August of 2003 I set out on what would be the biggest run I had ever set out on: Dalkey to Delhi.

Europe was very much a preparation and passed steadily, but not without event. Turkey though, was the gateway from west to east. But I was now entering Iran, which meant there would be more change, a new landscape and environment with a new people and society. It was a turning point in the run. I was nervous coming into this area of the world that we know so little about.

The sheer scale of the land before me was incredible. The tight set mountains of Eastern Turkey tapered off and the land opened right up into a vast rolling plain of brown desert. Distances between towns were 30, 40 and 50kms, which meant longer stretches in the saddle. But the roads were smooth rolling asphalt and this was most welcome.

Heavy with traffic, cars and huge trucks sped on the wide, open lanes. I felt miniscule on a bicycle. They beeped their horns at me, hanging out their windows shouting 'Welcome to Iran!' On such roads you could push out long distances but the riding was unnerving. It left you more worn than tired at the end of the day.

In the towns, people could speak a little English. They were curious and would come right up and sit down beside you. It was men only that I had exchanges with. Women were about, but alone or with each other, and in Iran the majority are completely covered in the long black shawl.

I was buying food one evening in a roadside town and the owner spoke English. 'Ireland, ah yes, Roy Keane'. He was interested in the bike and insisted that I come to his home. This was not an unusual thing in the Muslim world. They pride themselves on their hospitality and everyday you'd be asked any number of times into houses.

His name was Enola. He lived with his wife, son and daughter in a single story house with a courtyard out front. We took off our shoes and came inside. He introduced me and I sat down with him and his son, while his wife and daughter stayed in the kitchen.

We ate food, drank tea and he showed me old photographs. His wife made a bed for me in the main room and I slept for the night. At about six the next morning he woke me and we walked to the mosque where he went inside to pray. 'Allah gives us everything', he said with knowing eyes. At midday, after goodbyes we collected my bicycle and I moved on.

I had come about 500kms on that route to Tehran, but at a town called Mianeh I turned off North, to cross the mountains to the Caspian Sea. It was greener now and the road faded away to dirt track. They were farming communities living in mud-walled houses. The men seemed smaller and their women wore shawls with faces more exposed. Swarms of children chased my bike through the towns laughing and screaming.

Like most mountain people, they were quieter and a little distant. But after greeting them in Farsi, they opened right up. I was invited in to eat. There was no English at all spoken; we had to rely on gesture alone. It was more peaceful off the beaten track. The life was more traditional. Many of the people there had never met a 'westerner' before, and I think they were as honored as I was to be in their homes with them.

From heights of over 2000m, the road rolled down out of the mountains to the Caspian Sea, and sea level. There was a holiday feel to the towns. Everyone cheered me on as I passed through. When I told them I had come from 'Irlandia' and was heading for India they went through the roof. It was crowd-hearings in teahouses and leaving was never easy, 'last tea Irlandia, last tea!'

With long-distance cycling, you need to have a certain pace, to feel like you're making progress. It was about this time that I began to find my own. I could ride 160kms(100 miles) a day. I was eating well and felt new strength on the bike. My rhythm though, would come to a stop. Two days and about 300kms inland, a speeding motorbike on a tight bend hit me from behind and we were thrown off the road.

I remember standing up and looking around with blurred vision for my bike. My clothes were shredded and my entire right side was shaved and bloody. I had hit my head and it was bleeding. I was put in a car and taken to Fasilabad, the next town, to hospital.

Four days were spent there, with drips, blood tests, x-rays and a stitch in my head for each day. Conditions were good and the doctors attended me constantly. The nurses were the first women I spoke to in Iran. I think people could see that I was alone. Patients invited me to sit with them.

Days passed and I was out, feeling better. Walking about the hot, bustling town on my own with a bandaged head, everybody had to talk to me. Ahmed, a mechanic in a bike shop beat my battered frame into a shape. We built a new back wheel, put in new cables and tuned the brakes and gears. It rolled, a little to the left, but it rolled, and we were up again.

I'd never had such a bad fall before, but it shakes you. Cycling about the streets of Fasilabad, I was nervous and edgy. There was still a lot of physical pain. It was too much and so I took the 'bus' to Masshad. We passed through a wild and barren plateau. It was lunar in appearance and atmosphere. Traveling in that bus, I could feel only regret at being cut off from the environment and the people.

I arrived and spent a week in Masshad, the Holy City of Imam Reza. It was an incredible place to be, to find peace and solace after the trauma of the accident.

I got my visa for Afghanistan in Masshad. I asked in the Consulate would it be safe to travel by bicycle in their country. 'Bicycle, no problem!', they replied, almost laughing. It was hard to know.

Sean O'Tuathail is currently working in Dublin and writing a book on his experiences cycling across the world