The symptoms of two weeks non-stop cycling and endless 10% climbs started to manifest themselves in our weakest point: the knees. Yuri didn’t
want to take any risks and bussed ahead to Sinop, from where the roads would be flatter and less demanding on the body.
It was busy on the market square, where the bus station was. A local meat vendor was desperately trying to sell the last pieces of his freshly butchered cow, as he saw the dogs lurking in the distance, drool dripping from their mouths. Yuri, hot chai in his hands, watched the scene as his friends were crossing the top of the hill.
“Oh man I really hate climbing with a lollypop in my mouth!” Stef murmured, clearly struggling with the plastic stick. “Yeah it is horrible right? Like eating a kebab while wall climbing. Not enjoyable at all!” Anton answered. And so the trio started making their way over the hilly landscape, crossing their fingers they were right about the flatlands after Sinop. Only 180 km of climbing, should be doable, right?
After Anton’s quick dip in the Black Sea we continued eastward. By now we were true experts in spotting nightly hide-outs, and we scored right away at a sawmill workshop. Soft wood chips and sawdust beneath our matresses tonight, well played lads.