The coarse pitch flies by below me

When I get the bikes out of the cellar after nine hours of deep sleep, my eyes fall on the front tire of my bike. Platt. Totally flat. While Tanja drags the luggage down from the room, I set about repairing the first flat tire after 4652 kilometers. A nasty metal splint has pushed through the casing and penetrated the hose. That now explains why yesterday was so exhausting. I probably rolled a large part of the route through the rain with a half-flat tire without noticing it. Before we set off today to put some miles on the tarmac, we digest the unforeseen repair with a hearty breakfast. Again we eat pasta with tomato sauce, salad, white bread, fried eggs and then a cappuccino. Then we let the sprockets spin. The weather is like the mood of an old woman at the moment. Sometimes good, sometimes bad. Today it’s great. With blue skies and crystal-clear air, we speed along without a headwind. The foothills of the Crimean Mountains stand out like a silhouette on the horizon. In the early afternoon, a few pretty fleecy clouds sugar-coat the blue above our heads. We glide silently past avenues of trees. The stinking piles of metal seem to be on vacation today. Only now and then does a sledge rattle or burp past us. Without doubt a cycling dream, despite luggage and trailer. The coarse pitch flies past below me. I have noticed since Romania that various objects have been pressed into the tar from time to time. Due to the heat in summer, the large truck tires press screws, ice cream sticks, sheet metal parts, horseshoes, shoes, beer capsules and much more into the soft bitumen. I’ve long been a little annoyed with myself, because every time I roll over such a dented object, I promise myself I’ll take a photo of it at the next opportunity. “Stop!”, I shout today full of zest for action, lean my trusty vehicle against the crash barrier, explain my plan to Tanja, unpack my camera and take a photo of a flat beer cheese. “I just hope you don’t start collecting all the different brands of beer now,” says Tanja with amusement. “Oh, that’s actually a good idea. Imagine we present the Ukrainian and Russian beer brands in this way in a later slide show. I think it would be fun,” I joke out loud. Despite the many short interruptions, we make good progress. My thighs don’t start to grumble and do their job flawlessly. Of course, who wouldn’t grumble? Having to pull a crate through yesterday’s dog weather with a half-flat tire is too much for any thigh.

As the hours get later, a couple of earthy wrinkles rise up from the flat land. The wind suddenly blows in our faces again. No challenge for us on this beautiful day. Garbage is burning in a suburb of the port city of Feodosilia. Industrial plants stretch their ugliness into the sky behind them. A freight train slowly works its way through the inferno. Then we leave the spectre behind us and the landscape suddenly becomes exotic. Steppe-like pasture reminds us of Mongolia. A shepherd walks with his dogs and sheep over dry grass bending in the wind. Mother Earth lays her beauty at our feet. At the top of the hill, the steppe landscape suddenly stretches down to the Black Sea. The port city of Feodosilia is bordered to the south by the foothills of the Crimean Mountains. We slow down our journey and are thrilled and touched by the sight. “Fantastic,” says Tanja quietly. “Yes,” I agree with her and let my eyes glide over the impressive landscape.

Perfect timing

We let our pedalos roll down the hill into the city. We follow the main road. The evening search for a place to stay begins again. We want to spend a few days here. Perhaps we will also be lucky enough to visit the famous city of Yalta. We will see. An inconspicuous side street catches my attention. “In there,” my gut tells me. Before we take the wrong turn again, I ask for accommodation at a petrol station. “In there and straight ahead,” the gas station attendant confirms the feeling I just had. In fact, the small side road leads us towards the beach. I spot a babushka (grandma) on the sidewalk. “Ask her,” I hear Mother Earth say. “All right, I’ll ask her then,” I say to myself. “Are you looking for accommodation? I know one. Come on, I’ll show you,” replies the babushka. We follow it for a few hundred meters. “Are you from Germany? With the bikes? That would be too stressful for me. Why didn’t you come by train? Or even better, by plane? Well, it’s a great achievement. If you enjoy it. Why not,” she talks incessantly. Then she stops in front of an iron gate and presses the bell. A woman appears on the large staircase leading into the inviting-looking house. “They are cyclists from Germany. They’re looking for a room. Thought you might have one for them,” she recommends. Then she laughs heartily, slaps her hand in mine like a food ball player and says goodbye. Half an hour later, our noble steeds are locked up in the cellar and we enjoy a spacious room with expansive windows. It is clean and cozy. “Dinner is in ten minutes,” the lady at reception urges us to hurry. We can hardly believe it. After almost 70 kilometers on the bike, a flat tire, the many photo stops, a short stay in a roadside café, we land in the small private hotel just in time. It’s hard to believe. It was as if we had booked this day with a very good travel company. The timing was more than perfect. Is that a coincidence? But as I said before, I no longer believe in coincidences. I think it was meant to be. We didn’t let ourselves get stressed. Therein lies part of the secret. It lies in letting it flow. To open up to life. To accept things that happen without complaining too much. Enjoy the moment even when it rains. Being human under all conditions. Surrendering to the order of the cosmos and not believing, for example, that there is an even better hotel just down the street. The feeling led us here and the feeling is no coincidence. Everyone has it. Only when we are overworked do we hardly feel it. Negative stress is the killer of our happiness, is the killer of our lives and doesn’t get us anywhere. On the contrary, we no longer listen to the sensitive vibrations within us. These are the experiences I am having more and more on this trip. Fantastic experiences that have made this trip an extraordinary experience for us so far. I am sure that if we keep faith in ourselves and trust in “all that is”, we will experience many more wonderful things.

Between the Sea of Azov and the Black Sea

After dinner, we stroll the few hundred meters down to the beach. The last bathing children jump out of the water, shivering, and are dried off by their mothers. We enjoy the moments standing here on the beach of the Black Sea, which has been our companion for months. Satisfied with myself and my life, I look out over the supposed infinity of this inland sea, which lies between south-eastern Europe and Asia Minor. Supposed infinity because at 436,400 square kilometers it is almost seven times smaller than the Mediterranean. It is actually just a tributary of the Mediterranean Sea and is connected to it by the Bosphorus. “What are you looking so thoughtful about?” Tanja interrupts my thoughts. “Thoughtful? Perhaps. I was just thinking that on the other side of this sea, right there in the east,” I say pointing with my finger, “lies Russia and Georgia.” “And down there in the south?” Tanja wants to know. “That’s where Turkey is. Not far at all, actually. As far as I know, it’s only a little over 400 kilometers from here to the Turkish city of Samsun.” “Bulgaria also borders the Black Sea, doesn’t it?” “Yes, but we can’t see the coast from here, it’s exactly in the direction we came from.” “So in the west?” “That’s right.” “It’s great to get to know Mother Earth the way we do,” says Tanja. “By all means. I couldn’t imagine anything better,” I reply pensively. “So Russia is over there,” Tanja continues our conversation. “Yes.” “Sounds kind of exciting. Don’t you think?” “Yes, I think so too. Above all, I’m curious to see what’s waiting for us in Russia. Only another hundred kilometers from here and then we’ll cross the Kerch Strait. Then we’ll finally be in Russia.” “Will there be a regular ferry service there?” “Definitely. It’s an important connection between Russia and Ukraine,” I reply. “And where does the sea route between the two countries lead to? Does the Black Sea continue there?” Tanja wants to know. “An interesting question. I just took a closer look at the map yesterday and was surprised to discover a sea there that I had never heard of before. The Kerch Strait leads into the Sea of Azov, which was once called the Sea of Fishes by the Turks because of its abundance of fish.” “And today it’s probably polluted?” “Exactly. The Russians draw water from the tributaries of the sea to irrigate their fields. That’s why it’s becoming more and more salty. Then there’s the chemical pollution from industry.” “Shouldn’t you think that a sea can become salty if you take water from the rivers?” Tanja replies. “According to our documents, the Sea of Azov only has a maximum depth of around 16 meters. In comparison, the deepest point of the Black Sea is more than 2135 meters and the deepest point of the Mediterranean is even given as 5152 meters. It is almost twelve times smaller than the Black Sea and 80 times smaller than the Mediterranean,” I remember. “So it has little water mass?” “Yes.” “Then this sea should actually be called a lake?” “If you compare it with our distant destination, Lake Baikal in Siberia, you’re right. Lake Baikal is only slightly smaller, but has considerably more water due to its depth of 1620 meters.” “Interesting,” says Tanja thoughtfully. We gaze at the shimmering water surface in the evening light for a while longer. Then the wind picks up. Shivering, we retreat.

We take a seat in a street pub. I get us two Halba (draught beer) and a bag of pistachios. We watch the goings-on in the pub in silence. Vodka is usually drunk. Often mixed with orange juice. Many of the people present are chock-a-block after a short time. Drinking seems to be a popular sport here. The consumption of vodka is frightening. We have heard a lot about it, but we are surprised that it is so bad. A man leaves the pub and stops in front of us on the sidewalk. He seems to be waiting for something. His head falls onto his chest. Suddenly he begins to sway. Back and forth, back and forth. Suddenly he takes a few quick steps forward, a few seconds later he runs backwards so as not to lose his balance. A terrible spectacle. Then his buddy comes out of the bar, grabs his arm and together they stagger off into the darkness.

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