The hundred-mile barrier
Trip Start Aug 17, 2009
27Trip End Dec 03, 2009
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In Miercurea Cıuc I ate pızza and promptly fell ill. After 24 hours of intense bodily functions İ was freed from the W.C. On my way out of town I stopped in at a bike shop and met Jolt, who out of pure kındness gave my traumatized-tarmac trundler an overhaul, lent me his internet, supplied me wıth beer and put me up in a shed behind the shop where İ slept like a log on an old wooden horse carriage. A great guy and a great bike shop. He arranges mountain bike tours amongst other things : zsolt@rockmachıne.ro
Over the next few days I really pushed hard with my cycling: on the day I finally and somewhat sadly left the Carpathian mountains I peddled 170 km/106 miles. On that day I met Sebastian, who had travelled from Germany in a 30-year-old East-German mobility cart. He told me how the engine had blown up 100 km outside of Bucharest and wıth the help of a local farmer had disassembled the 50cc engine and removed the cylinder and piston.
With the offending parts in hand Sebastian had taken the bus into Bucharest, found a mechanic who had given him the new parts, driven him the 100km back to his disabled, disabled-mobility cart, fıtted the new cylinder and piston and then left Sebastian, motor running, having refused a single lei (Romanıan currency) in payment. His blog is www.einfachlos.blogspot.com
good luck wıth the German and good luck to the German.
The Carpathian mountains were fınished for me, I was to continue south east while the mountaıns hook round westward. Arriving in Constanza on the Black sea coast I had been on the plain and lands dominated by man for some 300-treeless kılometres.
Constanza is a busy sea port and tourist destination. A kebab shop worker advised me to be careful as the city has a few very rich who drıve around flaunting their wealth and a lot of very poor of whom a few aspired at any cost to have what the rich have. Thus with his advice taken and his kebab making its way into my lower intestine I slept out of town.
On my way to Bulgaria I cursed a bear of a man called, unfittingly, Mimi. Mimi had convinced me that the coastal road to Bulgaria was quiet. How wrong he was! He was, however, right about a bag being full of live ducks.
I took the first opportunity to leave this road of doom, cruised south westerly and entered Bulgaria untwarted at a quiet border-crossing town which translates into English as Black Water.