From the Seljuks to the Taşyolu Gorge

Who were the Seljuks? Strangely, that’s not the question on my mind as I stand before this mystical 13th-century monument — a place my husband, our son, and I have cycled almost 5,000 kilometres to reach.

At sunset in Central Anatolia, we marvel at the Great Mosque and Hospital of Divriği. Healing and spirituality were closely intertwined here. The former hospital is so richly adorned with intricate ornamentation that you have to see not only with your eyes, but with your heart — and even then, you can never take it all in.

In this place, I feel that simply resting among the different shapes and colors, which seem to move and change in the light of the setting sun, brings healing to my body, mind, and heart.

When I learn that a woman played a key role in the creation of the hospital, a smile spreads through me. Yes — these stars here, and those shapes over there. A fountain stands in the center of the building. The gentle sound of flowing water was meant to support the healing process.

Fascinated and completely captivated by this interplay of shapes and colors, I move entirely in the here and now. Most of the time, that really makes sense. But when the next few days are going to feel like crossing the Alps, it would actually be wise, sooner or later, to think about route planning and stocking up on food.

We don’t. Because we blindly follow William, who seems to have everything under control. Having cycled all the way from England, he caught up with us, found us amid the sea of colors inside the mosque of Divriği, and together we pitch our tents in a field. We’re very happy for the company as we cook together under the stars.

The next morning, we set off — following William. Our destination: the Taşyolu Gorge, famous among cyclists.

I insist that we ride back to the village once more to refill our water. Before long, it becomes clear that William is twice as fast as we are and seems to fly effortlessly up the gravel tracks. Which isn’t entirely true, because he’s doping himself with Black Sabbath (heavy metal) and electrolytes. He shares both with us when he realizes that we have to push our bikes up most of these steep climbs.

Well, actually, I’m the one doing most of the pushing. My son is tough, and Lukas is a powerhouse anyway. But with his overloaded bike and the trailer, even he sometimes has to get off and push.

Anyone who thought, as I did, that headwinds and cycling uphill were the cruelest things about bike travel was wrong. Because what’s even more brutal are steep gravel tracks going uphill. On the loose rocks, the bike keeps rolling backwards, and the stones shift beneath my feet. The will is there, but my legs and arms have nothing left to give. During these days, I come into contact with a strength I don’t actually have.

William is gone. And in a way, that helps — it’s supportive when everyone is simply free to follow their own pace.

After a sweaty climb over the pass, I discover that going steeply downhill on gravel isn’t much more pleasant either. Before I know it, the stones slide away beneath my tires and I pull off yet another elegant landing. Where my body learned these acrobatics is a mystery to me. This time, the bike simply shoots out from underneath me, I leap forward, land running on both feet, and keep going for several more meters with the momentum. Somewhere in the process, my elbow slams into my knee — but apart from that, nothing happens.

Phew — lucky again.

Where is the rest of my family, anyway?

A little farther on, they are standing beneath the only tree for miles, surrounded by endless mountains and dry landscape, completely unaware of my acrobatic stunt. Its branches reach low toward the ground, offering us juicy, ripe apricots. What a moment of pure happiness.

Later, at the river — the first one we dare to swim in and even drink from — we meet William again. He has already washed his clothes and taken a break, missed the apricot tree entirely, and is now getting back on his bike to continue on his way.

We, on the other hand, take a break for several hours in the midday heat. Slowly, it begins to dawn on us that this can’t possibly be the route all those other cycle travelers — where are they all, anyway? — take through the famous Taşyolu Gorge. The road feels extreme to us. Extremely remote, steep, wild, and dangerous.

I’m suddenly overcome by a feeling of: “Where am I, anyway? How am I ever going to get out of here? And when am I going to get something to eat again?”

The last question is especially pressing for our 13-year-old son — and causes him quite a bit of stress.

We still have enough food. Lentils and oats, as usual. For Petur, that’s not enough. Sometimes I hear him muttering something about burgers and pizza. He has even composed a song in which those words keep coming up again and again.

In any case, it becomes very clear to me that out here in the wilderness, it would be really smart to carry chocolate, cookies, and chips. Food for my son’s psyche. Energy bars would of course be ideal, but I haven’t come across anything like that in the shops here yet.

Well. At least we have oats and lentils, and we need to keep our son in good spirits, because for him, that’s not exactly the kind of food that offers much emotional support out here in the middle of nowhere.

Sometimes the dry landscape, with its 3,000- to 4,000-meter-high mountains, feels so intensely silent, vast, and powerful that I consciously open my mind so it doesn’t shut out this sense of grandeur. I imagine the crown of my head widening and my awareness expanding out into the landscape. It works.

What still isn’t working by the end of the day is pushing my bike up the mountains. Again and again, once my husband reaches the top, he has to turn around and come back down to push my bike up for me. For that, as for so many other things, I love him very much.

Our luggage is sometimes the subject of heated debate on social media. It also comes up again and again within our own travel team — my husband, our son, and me. But out here in this wilderness, where we truly wouldn’t have the strength to turn back, I’m grateful for the extra tires, inner tubes, and tools we’re carrying.

A little mental and emotional nourishment would have been nice to have, too.

By evening, the odometer really does show 36 kilometers. We pitch our tents in a magnificent mountain landscape and feel deeply grateful to be alive.

By evening, the odometer really does show 36 kilometers. We pitch our tents in a magnificent mountain landscape and feel deeply grateful to be alive.

Before I look at the route ahead of us, I meditate and do a few yoga exercises. Cook oats, take down the tents, check the bikes, and off we go. Straight up the steepest and longest climb we’ve tackled so far.

For the first time, all three of us are actually pushing our bikes.

To my great delight, a herd of cows suddenly appears beside me. Some of the animals are adorned with magnificent headpieces, sending waves of joy through me.

It’s these little moments of happiness — the flowers along the roadside that have accompanied me all the way through Turkey — that give me the strength to keep pedaling. Or keep pushing. Again and again, I gently guide my attention back into the blossoms whenever it wants to settle once more on my circling thoughts or aching body.

And eventually, this mountain too is conquered.

At some point, it finally starts going downhill, and the ground becomes reasonably gentle. We pass another road. This must be the actual access route to the Taşyolu Gorge, because people surely can’t be so crazy as to put themselves through what we have just been through. William comes to see it that way too — and a few days later, we should meet him again “by chance.”

So now we are truly on our way into the Taşyolu. As we ride downhill, we shout with joy and excitement. The scenery reminds us of Switzerland.

Just before the entrance to the gorge, which consists of around 30 tunnels and is considered one of the most spectacular routes in Turkey, my nervous system suddenly remembers that I suffer from both a fear of heights and claustrophobia. The narrow road was carved into the steep rock walls in the 1870s and once served as an important trade route between Central Anatolia and the east of the country. Even today, the signs are covered with stickers from cyclists and motorbike travelers from all over the world.

Okay, I tell myself, they made it through too.

Here we go.

And it really isn’t as bad as I had feared.

Our big highlight is a group of ibex — Lukas’ and my zodiac sign — appearing right in front of us, then leaping up the steep rock walls with such grace and ease that we can’t help feeling a little jealous.

After ten kilometers, that changes again too.