Megan Melcher
Six days from Istanbul, we took our first rest day in Thessaloniki to catch up on sleep, email, and socialize with fellow travellers.  The next day, we were back on our bikes heading towards Macedonia.  With freshly rested legs and two nights sleep in a bed, we were ready to tackle what Kellen referred to as a "pretty difficult couple of days."  We had a lot of climbing ahead and I tried not to let the daunting elevation map get in my head.  I'm not sure whether it was my rejuvenated quads, the gorgeous scenery, or my attempts at having an 80s dance party on my bike, but the hills seemed much more manageable this time around.  Dare I say, I actually enjoyed them. 

While traveling in Macedonia, we created some new riding games to spice things up on the road.  International “caution” signs are labeled simply with an exclamation point, and we decided that a scream or exclamation was required for each of these signs we passed.  The punishment for missing was a shirtless kilometer with as many waves, thumbs-up, and laughs you can get from passing cars (don’t worry, I was still allowed to wear a sports-bra).  Despite many "Woohoos!!", "Go Blues!!", "Scotty Doesn't Know!!", and Albanian exclamations, we each found ourselves with a couple kilometers to work on our tans and generate laughter from the others.

The language barrier has continued in full force through Macedonia and Albania and it has caused us to think a little more creatively.  It is fairly easy to identify the most unsuccessful ways of communicating: repeating the same word over and over, raising our voice, and watching the locals spell out words in the air. In contrast, we have become experts at charades and have learned that squawking like a chicken and flapping your arms is in fact an effective way to order lunch.

After our brief 27-hour crossing of Macedonia, we rolled into Albania.  In the first town, we were scoping out a spot to eat and asked a couple standing outside a restaurant if we could look at menu.  In a matter of seconds, Bill was speaking with somebody on the restaurant owner's cell phone.  Over the course of a few phone calls with several of their English speaking friends and relatives, not only had we ordered a traditional Albanian dinner, but we had also secured a camping spot in their back yard for the evening.

The “lost in translation” fun continued into the next morning when the old woman running the restaurant was looking through my bag trying to make sense of my foreign products.  Through another game of charades I tried to explain to her the benefits of sunscreen, but by this time she had found our tub of anti-chafing cycling gel (or as we know it, “butt cream”) and was already applying it to her feet.  As she began to feel the tingling sensation on her heels, she gave me a friendly smack to the face and walked inside.  The three of us were on the ground in laughter.

Following a delicious breakfast with “butt cream lady” and her husband, we made our way towards our biggest mountain yet.  On the way, we stopped for a quick lunch in a city called Elbasan and received a rather thorough Albanian lesson from the proprietor Lule and his family.  I have been very impressed with Kellen's ability to pick up certain local words and phrases after spending only a few hours in the country.  He had mentioned to me the importance of learning a few simple phrases such as "hello", "how are you?", and "thank you!" to warm up to the people we meet.  It has already become apparent how some people really do appreciate the effort we make to learn the local language, including Lule, who was happy to be our Albanian-English dictionary for the hour.  Before leaving, we took a quick snapshot outside the shop.  Lule promptly told Kellen to "Facebook him," and we assured him that the photo would be posted and tagged appropriately.

Our second rain storm came at a rather opportune time.  As we began climbing the mountain pass standing between us and the capital Tirane, we were hit with steady rainfall. It was actually a nice change from the beating sun and it gave our farmer’s tans an afternoon off.  Looking up from the base of the mountain I thought, "Oh, there is no way this road actually goes alllll the way to the top.  I'm sure it just curves around to the other side at some point."  I was wrong.  It went all the way to the top.  About 3 hours later and after several generous fruit donations from the roadside vendors, we reached the top of the pass and were treated to the most breathtaking scenery of the trip.

I now understand why Kellen “loves riding up mountains.”  We rode 30km along a ridge with beautiful deep valleys on both sides before descending into Tirane.  It was gorgeous.

Our last night in Albania we stopped in a small town called Shkoder to pick up groceries for dinner.  When we stopped to ask for directions to a market we were passed over to an 8 year old boy who would walk us to the store.   This boy was eating what looked to me like a delicious popsicle and so I asked him where he got it. Before I knew it was buying popsicles for what seemed like Shkoder’s entire under-10 boys soccer team that had come out of nowhere.  It was these boys turn to play charades, pointing out the “local drunk” and trying every trick they knew to get me to laugh.  (It worked).  I was only saved by Kellen and Bill exiting the market and getting us moving again to find a campsite.

Albania has been my favorite country so far because of the fun interactions with the people.  At one point I passed a group of kids on the side of the road and was proud to earn four high-fives in a row.  Then I realized I had only sparked everyone’s excitement, and Kellen and Bill were able to pass with seven and eight high-fives, respectively.  These type of interactions are a wonderful experience and I hope they continue in Montenegro and Croatia.

Bill Conry
In preparing for this trip I was met with a constant stream of questions from my friends and family:  Where are you going to be sleeping?  Are you in good enough shape?  What types of roads are you taking?  As I attempted to respond to these inquiries confidently to provide them with the sense that I was well aware of the challenges ahead and had all of the logistics ironed out, in reality I had no idea what I was getting into.  I eventually accepted that despite how many e-mails I pestered Kellen with or how much internet research I conducted, the only way to produce accurate responses would be to hop a plane, assemble my bike, and begin pedaling westward.

As we departed Istanbul, I could barely hold in my excitement of experiencing the picturesque landscapes and bucolic scenery that define European cycle touring.  Instead a different visual dominated my sight:  Traffic.  Lots of traffic.  For some reason it never occurred to me that the world's fourth largest city, accessible by only a handful of major roads would generate the bumper to bumper phenomenon we know too well in the States.  As we tried our best to avoid the path of motorists on a shoulder-less road while still taking advantage of the size and agility advantage of the bikes, we were hit with more honks than I have ever received in my life.  Could you imagine driving down I-95 and having to swerve to avoid someone on a fully loading touring bike?  Mom, if you're reading this don't worry, we were wearing our helmets!

The gridlock eventually thinned out miles from the city as we entered a less populated portion of Turkey, but then we were introduced to another cyclist foe: hills.  As I crawled up my first climb it hit me:  biking across a continent will not be a cakewalk.  I trained religiously for this trip, I biked, I ran, I lifted, I jumped rope, hell I even ran up and down the steps of the Philadelphia Art Museum made famous by Rocky Balboa.  Despite those efforts I immediately recognized two fatal flaws to my regime:  1) I did not practice on enough hills.  Chicago is flatter than week old keg beer, so I did not have much of an opportunity to train on inclines.  2)  I foolishly seldom biked while fully loaded with gear.  The bikes we have are touring bikes that are designed for trips like this, favoring durability over speed, hence their steel frames.  Throw on 60-70 lbs of weight in the panniers (bike luggage) and you are not whipping around Europe at the rate or ease of a Tour de France cyclist.

After the first few days of cycling it felt like someone beat my quads with a baseball bat for 30 minutes, took a five minute water break, then beat them with a hammer for another 30.  I was that sore.  It wasn't just my quads either, it was my entire body: neck, back, feet, and every leg muscle you can think of.  Amongst my sorest muscles were a few I wasn't even aware I had until this trip.  While in pain I kept reminding myself that my trek will be reminiscent of high school soccer preseason practice: despite my preparations the first couple days are brutal and it's downhill from there.  If I was wrong I this was going to be the longest two months of my life.

The riding did indeed become easier after the first few days as we headed towards Greece.  The language barrier grew thicker the farther from Istanbul we pedaled, creating loads of interesting/awkward/hilarious interactions.  One night Kellen suggested we pick up fuel for his stove from a gas station and prepare a meal at our campsite.  When we arrived at the gas station Kellen explained what he needed, and the attendant decided to go the extra mile for us to be EXTRA sure he was matching the gasoline type with what was already in the can.  He began taking full out whiffs of the fuel to classify it and enlisting other workers and unsuspecting motorists to do the same.  When all was said and done at least seven locals had each taken at least one large inhalation of the gas before they concluded that it was regular unleaded, as Kellen had indicated from the get go. Now I'm no doctor, but I'm fairly confident gasoline appeared on a list of bad things to stick up your nose during one of my D.A.R.E. classes.  Props to Kellen for refusing to give into the peer pressure, even though all of the sniffers were clearly members of the "in" crowd of rural Turkey.

We did not find a market that night to buy pasta for our fresh can of fuel, although we were able to taste the local fruit, literally.  A produce stand operator waived us down and motioned for us to try some fresh melon to which we obliged.  We figured we could each grab a slice and then find a campsite as sunset was approaching, but Melon Man had other plans.  He fed us melon as if we were famine victims. He insisted that we each consume about 15 pieces.   We ate as much as we could and had to pedal off as he was slicing up the watermelon for round two.

After the first week of cycling did I begin to realize how unique and exciting it is to tour by bike.  Cycling pace is perfect: it's fast enough so that there's never a dull moment yet slow enough so you can soak everything in.   I'm at a loss of words for the feeling that comes over me when we roll into a tiny village for lunch that can count on one hand how many Americans it's hosted this year, rely on pointing to order our food, and then explain to an incredulous audience that we're from American and are biking to Portugal.  If the first week of the trip did anything it served as a reminder that people are people no matter where you are.  It's amazing how far a smile and a wave can get you.

After three days passing through the rolling hills and sprawling farms of western Turkey, we entered the Greek city of Alexandroupoli where Kellen and I promptly jumped into the Aegean Sea and engaged in an impromptu farmer's tan-off.  Kellen's four-and-a-half month head start proved to be the competitive edge he needed to claim victory.

I was able to brush off my loss and get stoked for my first authentic Greek dinner.  As we fumbled over the menu a friendly local named Ares offered to help with our order.  Ares was Greek, yet by far the best English speaker we had encountered since Istanbul.  He credits his fluency to watching American movies growing up, covering up the Greek subtitles and forcing himself to understand what's going on.  Ares welcomed us to his country and provided us with plenty of insight surrounding Greek culture.  We were all floored to learn that "feta" means "slice" and the ubiquitous cheese coined its name from villagers asking for a "feta" of the substance at local stores.  Who knew?

En route to Thessaloniki, Greece Megan let her desire to swim and camp on the Aegean be heard loud and clear.  Kellen, our fearless navigator, assured us that it would not be a problem since the road we were on that day meandered along the coast.  We eventually found our way to a small, hidden beach town miles from the highway called Ofriani that had everything we were looking for.  We sat down for dinner on beach to celebrate our great find and forthcoming celebratory dip when the sky began to look a bit ominous.  Then we saw a raindrop, followed by steady precipitation, followed by one of the most intense deluges I have ever witnessed.  Irene must have a feisty sister in the Mediterranean.  We were still outside at this point, and quickly discovered that the umbrellas were no match for the sideways rain, leaving us with no other option but to run across the street to the restaurant.  We all ate our last chunks of feta and made a sprint for it.  Kellen's dramatic leap over a massive puddle wine bottle in hand garnered applause from the other patrons.

As we finished our meals and the rain continued I assessed the situation and presented Kellen and Megan with three options: 1) brave the storm and set up our tents on the beach   2) find a guesthouse   3) order another bottle of wine.  "Wine," Kellen and Megan responded in unison.  After another couple bottles of the house white the storm  calmed and the restaurant owner kindly informed us that there would be clear skies from here on out and that there was a perfect camping spot right down the street.  Done.  Let this be a lesson that contrary to popular belief alcohol and procrastination can solve problems.

We woke up the next morning to the sounds of crashing waves and set out for Thessaloniki, the second largest city in Greece behind Athens, where we were planned to take a much needed rest day.

BEARD WATCH

Most of you who know me are aware I have never grown a full beard or mustache for a number of personal and social reasons.  I figured this trip would be the perfect opportunity to roll the dice the see what happens when I let my facial hair grow out!  The day I left I buzzed my head (also a first) and shaved.  I will not touch a razor or scissor until I arrive in Lisbon.  I will keep you all updated on my progress throughout the trip.