Eurasian Dreamscape
5000 Miles from Armenia to Ireland
By Finbar Curtin
Wheezing. huffing, gasping.
The sounds of my struggles echoed across the valley as I labored to suck in the thin mountain air. My legs seared in pain, but I was determined to press on. Through a teary squint, I glanced at my GPS watch. 2000ft of elevation to go... A profane flurry of self-hatred erupted within me, but I was far too out of breath to curse.
The Svaneti mountain pass loomed high above, and the gravel road, no more than a glorified goat-path, winded up towards the heavens. Despite the never ending switchbacks, the way was agonizingly steep. My wheels spun in the dirt, and each pedal stroke sucked me deeper into a maelstrom of pain. Somehow, my oxygen-deprived brain reasoned that I had at least another hour of climbing; I needed to tone back my effort.
There was no doubt that I had crossed my lactate threshold: a level of exertion every cyclist has experienced. Exceeding this threshold sends the body into a physiological downward spiral. As the cellular demand for oxygen struggles to meet supply, the by-product lactate accumulates in the bloodstream faster than it can be cleared away. Energetic processes are stretched thin, and the athlete is moments away from “blowing up”—facing a wall of insurmountable fatigue. In other words, it’s a limit below which one can maintain a sustainable intensity. Overshooting such a limit leads to inevitable collapse.
Such thresholds exist in many other systems. Compounding credit card interest can outpace an individual's ability to repay. Cancer cells will exponentially multiply until they kill their host. Boiling pasta too aggressively can cause an overflow of foam.
I was in the midst of a 3-month long mile bike tour from the West Asian Caucasus to Ireland, and with no shortage of time to think, I found myself often pondering about such limits. Pedaling 5000 miles, across 20 different countries, allows one to see the true scale of human civilization: energy-hungry megacities, vast expanses of industrial agriculture, and roadsides littered with waste. In the quest for ever higher standards of living, global societies are in a full out sprint to endlessly grow, build, and consume. Is there a limit to such growth—a lactate threshold for our planet? I began to wonder, does humanity need to pace itself?
The idea for this adventure sprung into existence last March, during my sailing travels in the Bahamas. I received a text saying I could help crew a superyacht on its June transit from Savannah, USA to Istanbul, Turkey. What a great way to bring a bike across the Atlantic, I thought. Could I ride across Europe?
Crossing an ocean on a giant steel ship was an exciting, new experience and far different than the tribulations of a 34ft sailboat. The meals were incredible, and the people made it fun. Yet, it became difficult to see past the daily futility of scrubbing salt from a billionaire’s 220ft-long pleasurecraft, throwing out buckets of uneaten meat, or burning 40,000 gallons of diesel. Stopping at the Mediterranean island of Majorca, I came to realize the scale of the superyachting world. There were dozens of other yachts this size, and this was only one port out of hundreds in the world. Here was a massive industry systematically churning out waste for the luxury of a few individuals.
I disembarked in Istanbul and took a 48-hour series of trains as far east as possible, to the Turkish city of Kars. With no command of the local dialect, I provisioned myself at bustling hole-in-the-wall grocers, packed my bags, and set out into the endless expanse of the high steppe.
This was an exciting but anxious moment for me. Unlike the sailing trip, I was completely on my own now, facing physical challenges in an exotic landscape. Yet, the alien surroundings kept me at ease. There was far too much to observe.
Over the next week, I pedaled my way into southeast Georgia and then into Armenia, before looping back into Georgia. I camped under bridges and in roadside bushes, eating ramen noodles and local variants of bread. It was a vagabond life, and I was loving it.
While eastern Turkey was no modern metropolis, the villages in Georgia and Armenia felt like a time machine to the 13th century (excluding the rusted Soviet jeeps). Men plowed their fields with horses. Herds of cattle roamed the hill sides. The shelters were primitive: a hodgepodge amalgamation of stone and wood. No electricity.
Yet, every person greeted me with a smile on their face. It might be easy for a citizen of the developed world to assume that these people were miserable—that their quality of life was too abysmal to provide happiness, but I would argue otherwise. I was surprised at how many people I saw just hanging out, simply enjoying free time, happy to speak with a foreign biker in mediocre Russian.
As I journeyed from these rural villages to the larger cities like Tbilisi, with their bustling streets, European brands, and modern amenities, I felt like I was witnessing the tale of human progress: the transformation of man from simple farmer to first-world consumer. I began to wonder, in this transformation, were people actually becoming happier? That is the point of civilizational progress, right? There’s no doubt that contentedness comes when basic needs are met—food, water, shelter, and health—but beyond these, do exponential levels of consumption make a person exponentially more fulfilled?
I left Tbilisi and headed into the Svaneti region, a culturally unique province nestled in the High Caucasus. After nearly straying into Russian separatist South Ossetia, I finally ascended that grueling mountain pass, reaching Ushguli, the highest village in Georgia. Few moments in my life have felt magical, but that grassy valley in the shadow of the Shkhara glacier, dotted with wild horses and ancient stone towers, seemed otherworldly.
Locals told me that they had been observing the glacier recede over the years. I didn’t know the Russian word for climate change, so I didn’t mention it, but it made me think: here was a community which could literally watch the planet heat up. Yet, these people, with their donkey driven carts and subsistence farming, were not the ones responsible for this change. That would be those living the first-world lifestyle, and those in search of it, like in Tbilisi. Similar to the cyclist pushing past his lactate threshold, industrial societies are overshooting an atmospheric planetary limit, but unlike the cyclist, they are not the ones to bear the entirety of the pain. The pain is felt by all.
With the help of gravity, I left the mountains (with only one bear encounter) and blasted downhill to the Black Sea. I passed through lush farmland, beach towns, and Batumi: “Vegas of the Black Sea”. Returning to the Turkish border, I felt small riding alongside queues of a hundred semi-trucks, all en route to Russia to bypass western sanctions. It was a sobering reminder that the allure of commerce is more powerful than any ideology or allegiance.
It took me a little over two weeks of riding to cross Turkey. Despite the language barrier, Turkish people were by far the most hospitable to me on my trip, inviting me into their homes for rest, stopping me on the side of the road to give me vegetables, and offering an infinite amount of tea. The landscape was also strikingly diverse. As I passed over the mountains, the humid forests of the Black Sea morphed into arid, barren desert, which then transitioned into the wide Anatolian grasslands.
I was humbled as I passed by vast swaths of agricultural land. Endless fields of sunflowers, apricots, olives, and grains. It is easy to forget in this world of fossil fuels and solar panels, that food is the most critical source of energy. Food and fertile land, not oil, is the ultimate source of life. Cycling 70 miles every day, it was impossible for me to forget this. I was having to constantly eat in order to keep pedaling.
Yet, there were also signs of decay: barren pastures, dried out irrigation channels, rows of wilted crops—a problem not unique to Turkey. As droughts fuel erosion and soils are depleted from industrial practices, crop yields become strained; new land must be brought into production. This cycle can only repeat for so long until there is no more virgin land—another example of a planetary limit. Food’s relative abundance is a feature unique to the modern era, and consequently, societies treat it like any other commodity. In this blindness, civilization is consuming arable land, the ultimate source of life, as if it were bank account interest when it is really the principle.
I noticed another interesting feature of Turkish society. Rural settlements, despite being in remote areas, are highly centralized, i.e. the people all live in close proximity. This is unlike America, or my home state of Vermont, where homes are spread throughout the countryside. Thus, life without an automobile is quite difficult in Vermont, but in Turkey, it actually seemed feasible. Vans would run from the villages to the larger cities twice a day, so that those without cars could conduct errands. Of course, the rural Turks sacrifice the idyllic green lawn and white picket fence, but it seems they are able to live a simpler life, built around a tighter community.
As I approached Istanbul, the farmland gradually gave way to urban sprawl, and thus began the challenge of crossing Europe’s largest city. Dodging traffic on superhighways was not my favorite part of the expedition, but it was impressive to see the scale of such a metropolis and how far we have come from since the era of hunter-gatherers.
A couple days later, as I was camping on the border with Greece, I encountered a group of migrants, heading to the border on foot. They were from Syria, Palestine, and even Morocco, and had walked across Turkey with hopes of entering the European Union. At first, I felt a little vulnerable, but I was able to nicely chat with them in mixed French and English. I couldn’t help feeling a little guilty that my adventure—a vacation essentially—was me living rough on the roads of Eurasia, but these people were doing it in search of a better life. In a moment of miscommunication, one of the migrants rushed over to me with his water bottle because he thought I was asking for water, when I was really offering it to them. That was an eye opening moment.
I crossed into Greece and followed the Aegean coast, camping near ancient amphitheaters and enjoying the Mediterranean breeze. On the way to the Bulgarian border, I crashed my bike on a gravely downslope, launching myself into a roadside ditch. My arm and hip were deeply cut, but in an insane stroke of luck, I had just passed a hospital one kilometer back. They stitched me up (7 total) and all for free (which my American brain couldn’t comprehend).
After a couple days of healing and copious gyro consumption, I got back on the saddle and climbed over the mountains into Bulgaria and Macedonia. The landscape was an interesting blend of alpine mountains and dry Mediterranean valleys. Admittedly, I didn’t find the people particularly warm—and to no judgment—but I did miss the constant chatter with strangers.
I crossed into Kosovo, a nation which was recognized by the West after its independence from Serbia, but of course, not by the Serbs. Thus far in the journey, I had been aware of underlying ethnic and geopolitical tension—Turks and Azerbaijanis versus Armenians and Kurds or Ukrainians and Georgians versus Ossetians and Russians—yet nothing particularly heated. But entering Kosovo and the other Balkan countries, that certainly changed.
I passed through towns whose buildings were still covered in bullet holes. War memorials were situated around downed tanks. People warned me not to camp too far off the beaten path, for fear of unmarked landmines. In Montenegro, I was eating lunch when a villager approached me and said, “You are American?! Where were you when Bill Clinton bombed our people?!” In the womb, I replied.
In Bosnia, I met a family who kindly let me stay in their backyard. Over dinner, they described how they had hid by the creek, gesturing behind them, while Serbian militia burned down their cottage. In a Serbian village, just down the road, a gas station attendant (unprompted) let me know that their war crimes could not technically be considered a genocide because women and children were spared.
As I rode through these countries, thinking about this carnage, I found it particularly painful because the landscape and people reminded me of my home state of Vermont. Rolling green hills, quiet villages, simple living. I tried to imagine if the people of Chelsea and Tunbridge slaughtered each other over some perceived difference.
The peoples of Yugoslavia lived among each other in relative harmony until economic growth ceased, causing the country to fall into debt, inflation, and collapse. In the pain of recession, people found meaning in nationalism. But importantly, the societal order in Yugoslavia, and globally, is structured in such a way that not growing, not expanding, not advancing leads to deleterious outcomes. This is problematic if there truly are planetary thresholds which may limit growth. In my daydreams, I wondered, is there an alternative structure? Can societies operate without the obligation to grow? And if not, maybe future Balkan-esque conflicts are not so far-fetched.
As I dwelled on these questions, I continued on through the rolling countrysides of Croatia and Slovenia. So far in my trip, I had grown used to the mounds of roadside trash (and stray dogs), but here, that noticeably ended. In previous countries, I would come to a gorgeous mountain outlook, only to find a massive dumpsite of garbage. Each scattered diaper, plastic bag, and bottle was a reminder to me of the scale of global consumption.
While America and the West are better about litter, their produced waste actually exceeds these other countries—it is just not as visible. In fact, much of that waste is exported to the developing world, where perhaps it finds its way to these roadside dumps. And by no means was I innocent of this. Living on the road, and constantly eating packaged gas station food, I became cognizant of how much waste I was generating. Somehow, each day my food bag would end up full of trash. In many ways, I was living a hyper-minimalist life, but I was in a position where it was difficult to make better food choices. Plastic is cheap, and when values are centered around quantity of consumption, cheap wins.
Gradually, the hills turned into mountains, and I found myself in the heart of the Italian Alps. This was a physically demanding section of the trip. I conquered mountain passes, battled thunderstorms, and survived freezing rain. But most difficult of all, I endured waves of German tourists in cars, motorcycles, and monstrous RVs, passing me at blind corners on narrow hillside roads. At risk of sounding snobbish, these people annoyed me. I believe the splendor of nature is truly more enjoyable when it is physically experienced: the sounds, sights, smells, and satisfaction of conquering a summit! Although I’m glad these motor-tourists were coming to enjoy the beauty of the Alps, I can’t help but feel that seeing it from a car misses out somehow.
Perhaps the most climatic moment of the trip was riding over Timmelsjoch, a pass at 8,100ft, in a raging storm. To make matters worse, I forgot that stores were closed on Sundays, so I was scraping by on food. After a grueling climb up to the continental divide, soaked to the bone and freezing, I found myself fumbling to swap out my brakes, so I could safely make the descent down to civilization. Pizza never tasted so good after that.
I pressed on into Austria, weaved through the low Alps of Germany, rode along Switzerland’s Lake Konstanz, cruised through the German Black Forest, and crossed the Rhine into France. Along the way, I enjoyed delicious coffee, baguettes, goat cheese and stayed with a couple cyclists who introduced me to the nuances of German beer.
Other than the occasional rainy day, life was easy. The mountains were behind me. The grocery stores were frequent, and the drivers were courteous. In some ways, this made the days longer; I had less to strive for. It was interesting having to be so focused on the mission every day for weeks on end, yet I found that strangely freeing. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t worried about money or commuting or work or romance; none of the abstractions of modernity matter when you’re trying to survive. Make it over the mountain. Look for water. Endure the desert sun. Find a camping spot. It hard, but it’s simple.
There is no doubt that the complexity of our first-world lives creates stress. As Rob and I said on the sailing trip: bigger boat, bigger problems. As I rode through the Saarland of Germany, Luxembourg, and the Belgian Ardennes, I started to think back on the humble Armenian villages. In the transformation of man from the simple farmer to first-world consumer, were people actually becoming happier?
That transformation, the endless growth and consumption, is pushing the planet to its limits. If it does not make people happier, then what is it for? What should be the goals of a civilization? Is there an optimal level of global productivity which meets people’s needs but also works within the Earth system? My daydreams produced many such questions but seldom any answers.
After seeing the Waterloo Battlefield and the trenches of Ypres, I took the ferry from northern France to Dover in the United Kingdom. Finally, I wouldn’t have to worry about a language barrier any longer! Except, the first chap to greet me off the boat said something so unintelligibly British that it may as well have been Turkish.
Riding on the left side of the road took some practice, but it quickly became normal. I had Istanbul flashbacks as I passed through the busy streets of London, but I survived with only one grizzly driver telling me, “Oi you cheeky wanker, you bloody ‘ell cut me off, I swear on me mum, I’ll…”
The UK was the only country I had previously been to. That made for less of exotic novelty, but I was able to appreciate the history and landscape more. Interestingly, Britain (and Ireland) were the most difficult countries to find stealthy camping spots. With few forests, the UK is a country of open pasture, but all of the fields are gated off and surrounded by hedgerows. Thus, I was forced to get creative (sometimes I got caught).
It’s interesting that at one point, Britain was covered in forests, but overconsumption of wood, even by simple medieval farmers, crossed a sustainable threshold and depleted this natural resource. British civilization was forced to look elsewhere for timber, in Ireland and in America. But what happens when there’s nowhere else to look? What happens when global civilization depletes the entire planet of a resource, whether it be arable land or oil or fish or lithium?
During the fury of Storm Babet (yes, it had a name), I passed through southern Wales. Being so far north in October, the days were beginning to feel shorter and colder. Staying warm at night was becoming a challenge, but if I dressed in every layer I had, it was manageable. I took one more ferry to the last country of the trip: my ancestral homeland of Ireland. Despite playing Irish music my whole life, this was my first time here, and I was not disappointed.
I rode along the gorgeous southern coast, enjoying Guinness at pubs and talking to chipper local farmers. In Cork, I visited three separate cathedrals of my namesake, St. Finbarr. I climbed over the mountains of Kerry and went on a hiking binge, summiting a few of Ireland’s tallest peaks. There, I met mushroom-foraging gypsies and shamanic crystal healers. I got to play at a world-class Irish session in Doolin (although, I completely butchered their tunes). In Limerick, I saw the village where my great-grandparents grew up, before they took the admirable leap to immigrate to America. A story not unlike the Syrian migrants.
I kept heading north, into Galway and Connemara, a Gaeltacht region where the Irish language still thrives. Here, among the rugged landscape of bogs and moors, there were many monuments to the tragedies of the 1840s famines. The potato was a godsend to the Irish people—until it wasn’t. Is there a similar risk hidden in the gift of modern agriculture? This brought me back to my thoughts in Turkey about food: the most critical source of energy. Without it, we are nothing. As I pedaled by decrepit stone cottages, long abandoned since Ireland lost 25% of its population, I wondered how a modern famine might play out.
While the questions kept coming, my cycling days were running out. Soon, I’d have to take a series of trains, ferries, buses, and planes back to America—back to real life. I had one more pristine, sunny day, riding through the Killary Fjord and camping under Croagh Patrick, a sacred mountain where St. Patrick fasted for forty days. I hiked to the peak in the morning, and nearly got blown off by the wind, before riding the last ten miles into Westport. I had done the math, and I needed something like 10.4 miles to reach 5,000 total, so I ended up doing circles in the hostel parking lot to hit that nice round number.
After 100 days of pedaling, braving the elements, and daydreaming about the world, I had completed my mission. I biked from Armenia to Ireland!
This journey exposed me to so many ideas about culture, society, dedication, and kindness. I hope this essay of musings has painted a picture of my headspace over this three month adventure. I want these words to be inquisitive, not pessimistic. I had so much time to daydream and ponder questions; this was a trip about thinking, more than anything else. The process of slow travel and seeing the true scale of society—every mile, every settlement, every culture—brings so much perspective. If I had done this by plane or car, I don’t think it would have been the same. People, along the whole way, were so kind to me, it has profoundly changed my outlook towards generosity. I need to strive to do better.
Like the lactate threshold of an endurance athlete, I believe the Earth has limits. It is difficult to say where or what those limits are, but they exist. Much like a cyclist’s speed, economic progress is viewed with religious significance. Growth has brought the world out of poverty, improved quality of life, and increased access to education and healthcare. This cannot be downplayed, but the question remains: can an economy, with physical inputs and outputs, grow endlessly on a finite planet? Is the goal of civilization to win the sprint or the marathon or a race that never ends?
The savvy cyclist knows when to adjust to a sustainable pace, and my hope is that global society will find the same wisdom. I encourage everyone to find time to slow down, daydream, and ask questions. We owe it to the future.
Thanks for reading!
Fantastic, Finbar. Beautifully written account of yet another brave adventure. Jimmy would be so proud 💔
Very well written story. You should consider submitting it to https://www.adventurecycling.org. They have a blog on their website and a really nice, well-loved magazine that publishes (in print) stories and photos like yours. I've done 600, 800 mile and 1400 mile tours, but never 5000, and never alone. It takes physical and emotional strength, courage and perseverance to do what you did. What an adventure!