Türkiye chopper tours, part II—Black Sea’s Istanbul to Trabzon
Collage - Author Murad Ayalp on Triumph Bonneville Bobber chopper motorcycle.
Dear readers, thank you for tuning in again, and welcome to the second edition of Türkiye Chopper Tours. We last left off as I was gearing up to leave Samsun heading east.
This is some of the most beautiful stretches of road in Türkiye, some of which are directly adjacent to the Black Sea. There are portions of road that tunnel through mountainous terrain and my God, some of these tunnels are 4 lanes wide going and coming (8 lanes total). It is a space that feels like it’s enough for a double-decker Boeing 747 to land and take off, with room to spare. The tunnel’s engineering specs and draft drawings alone must fill up an entire executive office, floor to ceiling.
I’ve done plenty of road trips in cars and trucks in Canada and the U.S., but doing one on a high-powered, ‘torquey,’ lowered, stretched-out chopper is another universe all in itself. It allows for a comfortable, 180 degrees visual, and at 80 – 120 kilometers per hour (49.7-74.5 miles per hour), at times, can leave you… breathless. Temperatures and smells are amplified due to being exposed to the elements at high speeds.
So, for example, riding along in the summer heat, you are suddenly thrust into a cool rush of air as you pass through a hilly forested patch with the smell of pine rushing into your helmet. This is one of the most uniquely pleasurable privileges of a rider. Because the change takes mere fractions of a second, something one would be oblivious to while in a car, your brain needs at least 10 seconds to realize why you are suddenly feeling cooler and what this incredible fragrance is. Being surprised by a sudden change in elements, realizing where it all came from, and enjoying it, can feel almost unworldly.
On the road, my music is the shifting of gears, and the sounds of the engine and exhaust bouncing off the road, trees and tunnels I pass through. No headphones, no music, no unnatural distractions. It’s just you, a quarter-ton bike, and the road.
Giresun, the nightmare begins
Passing through Ordu, and slowly approaching the town of Giresun, nightfall is well behind me as the time approaches 11:00 p.m. Entering the town, I begin seeing concrete road barriers blocking off certain lanes, Disaster and Emergency Management Authority (AFAD) trucks and personnel on duty as the road turns muddy and I begin to slow down. Putting away at a mere 10 kilometers/hour, the bike, my boots and legs are now fully caked in mud as I survey the devastation of the flood.
Trees and cars overturned, people sitting atop debris, smoking, having tea—it’s a chilling, apocalyptic scene. It’s the brink of fall, the last 10 days of August, so nights are fairly cool and I’m not wearing any winter-rated gear. Everything I have on is for a summer ride, didn’t figure it would get this cold.
As I putt along, continuously scanning the scene in shock, just 100 meters ahead I see concrete barriers completely blocking off the coastal highway that would’ve taken me straight into Trabzon. Having a highly curious nature since a boy, I said to myself, “What’s behind those barriers, and why is it blocked off?” I carefully ride past, in between the barriers and with both feet on the ground, barely twisting the throttle, I inch forward, essentially “walking the bike,” only to stop a couple of meters past the barriers. Everything in front of me, and below me, is pitch black. Can’t see a thing. Not a streetlight, not a bird, no buildings, no roads, nothing.
The clouds part momentarily, and in the moonlight, I finally realize I am only half a meter away from what looks to be at least a 30-40 meter drop straight down. The road, the entire neighborhood, street lights and all, what seems to be nearly an entire sub-district of 10 city blocks, swallowed—vanished. To my left is the Black Sea, to my right are the mountains, and in between and in front of me is this massive crater, a black hole.
I then realized the concrete barriers blocking the road were there to prevent anyone from falling to certain death. This means the ground below me is 99% unstable. Sitting there on my bike, engine running, headlight beaming into a black abyss, I figure with the bike, I am just over a quarter-ton of weight. The bike is 251 kilograms (555.1 pounds), and I’m around 71 kilograms (156.5 pounds). The ground can and will give way without notice. Getting that sick, hallowed feeling in my stomach and chest out of pure fear, while in a seated position on the bike, with just my feet, I gently begin to push myself backward, inch by inch, back through the concrete safety barriers.
It’s now past midnight and getting cold as I make my way back into town. I stop at a few hotels only to find out that emergency staff, authorities, and other travelers have booked all available rooms. I see a group of policemen and emergency personnel taking a break at a cafe.
I pull over, flip my helmet visor open, feeling the cold fall evening air hit my face, and yell out in Turkish, “Good evening gentlemen! Is there a road that will get me past all this?” One of the men replies, “Yes, just a few hundred meters ahead, make a left. You’ll need to head south into the mountains. But be careful, the floods have affected the roads there as well.”
What have you got yourself into this time?
I thank the men and make my way to the exit. Making a left, and now turning my back on the Black Sea, I head north up into the mountains where all this delicious tea is grown. Of course, that’s not what I’m thinking as I make the turn.
Only a few twists and turns up into the mountains, and I immediately begin seeing enormous cracks in the road as it starts raining. On top of already being cold, I’m soaking wet, and on a bike that is hitting some decent wind factor. One of the worst things about riding in the rain, other than getting completely soaked, is that your helmet visor doesn’t have any windshield wipers. If that wasn’t bad enough, your breathing now begins to fog up the inside of your helmet and you are forced to crack the visor open a half-inch. Now your face starts to freeze, and if you wear glasses like me, those fog up as well.
Not able to take off my glasses to see, I slide them down to the edge of my nose, and as the cold mountain wind hits my unprotected eyes, they begin to tear up as an involuntary reaction to the constant rush of cold air. This is now totally blurring my vision; I am essentially blind at this point. What do I do? Not able to use my hands, I begin blinking my eyes to clear away the tears. There is a split second of vision I attain directly after doing so. I am forced to blink once every 1-2 seconds for the duration of the trip. I slow down so the wind doesn’t hit my eyes with so much force, causing me to tear up less and see the road more.
If that isn’t fun enough for you, the gas tank light comes on, indicating there is very little fuel left.
I’ve been riding now for over an hour. I can’t feel my hands or feet and my legs are numbing up. It’s cold. My mind turns to verses from the Holy Quran as I begin to recite Ayat-Al-Kursi. This is about a level-7 panic attack (10 being the highest) in fear of running out of gas and freezing to death on the side of the road. The good news is I’ve made it up, over the mountain, and begin a gradual downhill descent, as I head further south.
‘Murad, it just wasn’t your time‘
No street lights, no power lines, no roadside cafes, nothing. I begin to mentally prepare to run out of gas, park the bike, and walk the rest of the way. Then, in the distance, off to my left, I see lights, my prayers are answered—it’s a gas station! Praise God! I don’t think a gas station looked more beautiful and pleasing to me than ever before.
As I pulled in to park, my eyes locked onto a large steaming electric tea pot plugged in, with disposable cups and sugar next to it set up on a white plastic picnic table to the left of the glass double doors of the station. Turning the engine off, I slowly un-saddle my near-frozen body off of the ‘British Horse’ as I let out a bit of an ‘old man’ groan.
Hearing me pull in, the gas station attendant comes out, a middle-aged man, standing at the door he looks me up and down in shock as I am covered in road grit and mud, the bike looking worse, license plate barely visible. It’s around 2:30-3:00 a.m. He hits the boil switch on the teapot to fire it up for my sake, as he invites me to have some and starts asking me the basics, how and why.
Like some cowboy outlaw on the run who has just tied his horse up in front of the town saloon, I make slow, careful steps into the warm light of the gas station, making my way directly to the automated coffee machine at the back corner. Taking my gloves and knee pads off, I unstrap my helmet and slowly pry it off of my frozen head, letting out another ‘old-man’ groan. My hands and arms are shaking, as I may be on the brink of hypothermia.
Like a man in his 90s, I can barely hold the empty coffee cup still as I place it in position, and select the cafe latte option. The sounds of the fussing and fizzing of the coffee machine are heavenly as I stand there violently shivering, all the while saying nothing to the station attendant, who is now behind the till.
I wipe my dripping nose as I grab a few energy-protein bars. I open one, take a bite, and take my first sip of this scaldingly hot latte. It was like the more I warmed up, the more I started to shake. After my latte cooled down a degree or two, I gulped it down and started the machine up for another, and another. Waiting for my next cup of coffee, I devour a few more protein bars and a sandwich, none of it paid for at this point. It’s like I’m robbing the place, and have the attendant at gunpoint.
I begin telling my story to the attendant as two Gendarmerie officers pull up in a truck and walk in. The two men, looking me up and down, seeing the mess I made next to the coffee machine, smiling and shaking their heads, asked where I’d come in from. I explained to the officers how it all went down as they paid for their gas. We all had a good laugh, and off they went. I clean up my mess, pay my tab, and ask the attendant about hotels in the area. He carefully explains to me about a cozy, low-priced inn in the town center about 30 minutes further south. By now I’ve warmed up sufficiently, and am not shivering anymore. I get my gear back on, fuel up, settle my tab, and saddle up the bike, and head for that hotel.
The hotel out of an ‘Inek Saban’ movie
The hotel is something out of a 1970s Turkish romance-action movie. It’s a classic, bordering on vintage. It feels like at any moment Inek Saban (played by Kemal Sunal) is going to pop out from around a corner wearing his little casket cap and vest, give that great big smile of his with those oversized set of gums and horse teeth and say something silly, God rest his soul.
Stay tuned, as this and finally reaching Trabzon and visiting the legendary Sumela Monastery is for part III…
