Smiling, Andel enquired whether I had enjoyed my meal. I indicated I had. He asked me to guess what was in the soup. I indicated I thought it was chicken. He laughed and corrected me, taking his belly in both hands and announcing “it was this part of a cow”. To my own surprise I didn’t mind at all. I felt better fuelled than I had all trip.
Before I left, the proprietor of the cafeteria showed me a bronze relief of himself playing basketball as a young man. It had been awarded to him by some state official of the time. He then sang a good old boys’ song in close harmony with his companions before erupting into contented laughter. They all wished me well and I was out the door, feeling as good as ever.
Returning to the flat, I put my things together quickly and made my way out to the road. The company of Andel had taught me one good lesson for the road; Tirana is a city which runs on machismo. As such, I traded in my timid caution of the previous evening for an affected bravado and made my way much more successfully through the traffic and out of the capital.
Between Tirana and the town of Elbasan lies a substantial mountain which I had discovered on Google maps just a few hours before I arrived at its foot. Perhaps because breakfast had left me with double the guts I would normally have, I looked up at the slope with some relish. The road was good and held plenty of distractions along the way. First I passed through a small village bravely named ‘Mullet city’. I saw no suspect haircuts. Further along, two old men helped a younger woman slaughter several lambs in the shade of a new pink blossom. Still further, I was overtaken by a trio of racing cyclists on beautiful Italian bikes. I made the mistake of trying to keep up with them, a burst which my calves did not thank me for. After nearly two hours of climbing the road flattened out to follow the ridge of the mountain. To my left I had the long bath of a valley which holds Tirana at its plughole. To my right a limitless floor of lower mountains could be seen as far as the light haze would allow. The immediate scenery was equally pleasing. Verdant banks fed sheep or goats which gambolled over little, molar rocks and between dry thorn bushes, away from grumpy mountain shepherds.
A long and quick and winding downhill took me to Elbasan. I had a quick break before entering the river valley holding the best part of the day’s road. After the pleasure of the morning, I allowed the tedium of the bare valley and the unpredictable, short but steep climbs get to me and I was soon wishing the day away. Further, the previous evening I had been reading the journal of my friend Rob Martineau, who is in the middle of an unbelievable trip from Cape Town to Addis Ababa, also by bicycle. Every day he is up against obstacles far greater than any I have experienced. In the lonely hours up the valley I played the dangerous mental game of weighing up the objective value of my exertions. I say dangerous because it is difficult to keep plugging away at a task as your mind undermines the value of that task.
Stubbornness prevailed over defeatism and at length I reached the mountains which terminate the valley and embrace Lake Ohrid, one of the deepest in Europe. A quick, steep climb took me to the top to enjoy the roll down to the lakeside. With the day’s work done and the clear lake waters lapping the shore I was able to set my mind straight again in the last few miles before finding a bed in Pogradec and passing into a deep sleep.
Distance covered 88 miles
