Five Miles an Hour to Trouble

“C’mon… move. Get out of the way.”

I’ve got a man in front of me moving like a drunken sailor — one step forward, two steps back, stumbling into the crowd. There are people everywhere, some kind of celebration spilling across the road. He’s dressed in an old, formal suit, completely out of place for the chaos around him.

I don’t want to hit him.

I’m yelling. I’m crawling along at maybe ten miles an hour, trying to thread my way through the mess and get to Istanbul. This is Turkey — no place you want trouble.

Then he steps backward.

Right into my path.

I hit him. No more than five miles an hour, but down he goes, sprawled across the road.

I’m in deep trouble.

It’s a major celebration — turns out part of the month-long festivities marking the 50th anniversary of the Turkish Republic. I thought it was Atatürk Day. Doesn’t matter. I’ve just flattened a well-dressed local in the middle of it all.

He jumps up, furious and embarrassed, and starts swinging.

I don’t even try to stop him. I’m in full Belstaff riding gear, helmet on. He’s punching leather and fiberglass. I just sit there grinning, apologizing over and over, letting him get it out of his system.

Eventually, he stops. Thank God he walks off unhurt.

I say a prayer of thanks. I’m not heading to a Turkish jail. No Midnight Express for me.

****

We’d crossed into Turkey from Bulgaria the day before. I remember the date because I’d listened to the Mets lose the final game of the ’73 World Series on Armed Forces Radio.

In Edirne, Turkey, I had my first real shower in weeks — campgrounds across Yugoslavia and Bulgaria had been shut down because of a cholera outbreak. The day before that, I’d stood in a bread line outside Sofia, Bulgaria, buying whatever I could: bread, some rough local liquor, a piece of lamb.

The next day, my stomach declared war. Every few minutes I was diving into the woods.

Crossing into Turkey didn’t help. After what seemed like hours at the border, we crossed over and I found one of those floor- level toilets. Just as I got situated, the door flies open — some German woman walks in — and I end up sprawled across the tile. Dignity was not part of this journey.

****

Then came the moment that told you the world has changed.

Suddenly — there it is. “The Selimiye Mosque.”

It doesn’t just sit there. It rises. It floats. It dominates the entire vista. Built in the 16th century by Mimar Sinan to rival Hagia Sophia in Istanbul, it hammers your senses and soul. I’d never seen anything like it. Still haven’t.

That’s when you know: you’re not in Europe anymore.

****

My plan was simple. Istanbul. Cross the Bosphorus into Asia. Head south — Dardanelles, Troy, Syria, the Middle East, the pyramids.

We made it to Istanbul and spent a few days recuperating. Istanbul itself? Unforgettable. Hagia Sophia. The Blue Mosque. Towering, beautiful — and all of them carrying that unmistakable smell of feet, not unpleasant but memorable. Your senses are alive. Istanbul-Constantinople is mysterious with a sense of danger. The only city that is part of both Europe and Asia. A city associated with the Byzantine, Roman, and Ottoman empires. Marco Polo was here. It was an integral part of Ancient History.

Here you have the Byzantine Straits, a gateway to the Black Sea. Famous Shopping in The Grand Bazaar — a battlefield of its own. I spent a few days haggling over a Turkish shoulder bag for my mother. Finally got it by sneaking up behind the shopkeeper and shouting my final price like an ambush. I mailed it home the next day for Christmas.

At night, one enjoyed the camaraderie of the campground filled with travelers — hashish smoke, cheap wine, and long conversations about the Palestinian situation. This was 1973. No one ever imagined it would still be unresolved decades later.

****

One thing about my life — war is never far away.

I grew up in its shadow. World War II stories from my father, who flew P-38s in Africa and Italy. Korea-Suez-Vietnam-Iraq Afghanistan-Iran all come to mind. And ahead? More. The Arab-Israel October War (or: The Yom Kippur War). Greece in turmoil. Tanks in Athens. Back then, there were no phones, no GPS. When something happened, you were on your own.

****

We crossed into Asia and rode toward the Dardanelles Strait — a place that still felt haunted. You can sense Gallipoli in the ground itself. We spent the night in the remains of a machine gun nest overlooking the strait. Not your typical campground.

From there, we pushed on to Troy. No crowds. No lines. Just ruins layered on ruins — cities built on top of each other across centuries. I sat there trying to picture it all: the horse, Helen, the legends. And then the obvious question hit me — Where’s the water?

****

We reached another Historic City — Izmir. The Arab-Israeli War had started. I still believed we could push through to Syria. Talk about naive. The border was closed. The Middle East was off-limits. It felt like someone had just ripped the heart out of the journey. Seeing the pyramids and checking on Erich von Däniken’s theories espoused in the “Chariots of the Gods” was a major destination of this Odyssey.

And historically, an issue bigger than the war itself — OPEC — was about to change the world.

****

I didn’t want to backtrack through Bulgaria and Yugoslavia. So, I looked for another way out.

There was one. A ferry — from Turkey to the Greek island of Chios, then onto Mykonos, and finally Piraeus, homeport of Athens. The problem was that the Turks and Greeks were barely on speaking terms. Didn’t matter. It was our only shot.

****

We killed time waiting in a run-down hotel in Izmir while my current travel partners were trying to score some hash. I came back one afternoon, parked my bike under the stairs, went upstairs — and froze. The entire floor of the room was covered in uncut marijuana. Wall to wall. I was terrified.

At the time, Americans were being executed in Turkey for drug smuggling. And here I was, bike downstairs, nowhere to run.

I didn’t sleep. When we finally made it to the ferry, they brought dogs for inspections — the whole deal. Somehow, we got through. And when that ferry pulled away from the dock — pure relief. Athens, here we come. Little did I know that Athens was in the midst of a revolution — tanks and all. A story for another time.