Tag: bike touring

The King’s Highway Day 2: Madaba – Karak

Distance: 56.05 miles

Time: 6:24:53

Elevation Gain: 6,236 feet

Average Speed: 8.7 mph

If I’d opened the curtains this morning, the first thing I’d have seen was heavy rain bouncing off the road outside, but as there were no curtains, I could already see it. Not ideal at the start of the hardest day of the trip.


I dawdled over breakfast, before ensuring to check my gears before I left. It turned out that the new style of Shimano derailleur was designed quite differently and I’d inadvertently routed it so that it was rubbing off the chain guide.


Having fixed the issue, I rolled out into the rain, the water teaming down the hill beside me as I made my way back towards the highway. Carrying on out of town, I passed through some small villages, dismayed that my higher gears were stuttering, fortunately my lower gears seemed to be working well and as I had the near 1000m Wadi Mujib to climb out of later, that was probably for the best.


Eventually the rain stopped and I made for a petrol station cafe, hoping a coffee might thaw me out a little after the onslaught from the chilling winds. The coffee was a thick spicy affair, that the owner lovingly prepared on his stove, he seemed keen that I should enjoy it, and thankfully I did.

Shortly after, the route left the King’s Highway, working its way to the top of a high ridgeline before plummeting down the other side into a complex dry arid landscape. Turning along the valley floor, passing workers’ camps along the way. Kids on their way back from school greeted me excitedly, one on a bike in particular, who pointed out the similarities of our travelling arrangements.


Back on the highway, the road climbed up and over to the start of the most challenging part of the route, the vast Wadi Mujib. The road disappeared over the edge, promising an 8% gradient on its way down. A stunning vista of the valley was revealed, the road snaking far below.


The descent was fantastic, only blighted by groups of dogs lurking alongside the barriers waiting to pounce. Luckily I was able to anticipate their assaults and get my accelerations in early, leaving them barking angrily far behind.


Down at the valley floor, just before I crossed the vast Mujib dam, my elevation dropped below 200 metres, bad news when I knew that I’d be returning to almost 1000 metres later on.


As I stood on the dam, the wind picked up once more, this time accompanied by rain, lashing down on my open panniers as I searched for some of the few food supplies I had, a packet of dates and, extravagantly, a tray of baklava. Then I reached the other side of the dam, and was stopped by the police.

It was a police check point, and he asked where I was from, and then where I was going. Karak, I replied, without conviction, given the conditions and the steepness of the opening pitch we were standing at the bottom of. I would have willed him to turn me back, but I knew that that would be just as bad…

Struggling up the opening slopes into the merciless headwind, I succumbed to the thought that there was no other outcome than cycling the last hour or so in the dark, but how dark is dark when the weather is this grim? My breathing was still laboured thanks to the cold and I was feeling more than a little concerned that it was after 3 o’clock, and the sun would set at half past 5, despite it not having been seen all day. I still had 25 miles to go, and of that, the first few miles included a 600 metre climb, and after that, the road continued to climb into a headwind that was gusting at over 35 miles per hour.


Finally, I knew the answer, I’d climbed out of the gorge at around 800 metres and was now ploughing on forlornly into the pitiless wind. As the the sunset call to prayer filled the air, the truth was it had already been dark for some time, and that wasn’t helped by the fact that I was now pedalling on into thick fog.

At the darkest possible stretch, on a blind uphill corner, under low overhanging tree cover, my front light went out and I took the first opportunity to get off the road. Resigned to hanging out for a while outside the Mutah University School of Agriculture, waiting for the light to charge, a voice called out from the small gatehouse, barely visible in the gloom.

Ahmed invited me inside his tiny booth, where he was huddled up near a small heater, waiting for some tea to brew. Pouring me a cup, I couldn’t thank him enough for his kindness, and drank it gratefully. Finishing it quickly, he poured me another and I settled back, happy to be waiting out the worst of the conditions in here.

Ahmed was the night watchman for the campus and he would be working until 8 AM, he was a father of 5, and was worried that his English skills might not still be up to scratch, having learned it at school, a long time before. He need not worry I assured him.

Soon a friend of Ahmed popped in, pouring us all another tea, before going to put another pot on. He shared out some biscuits which I accepted gratefully, but I ensured to fetch my tray of baklava before he came back with the second pot. Baklava from Madaba, Ahmed informed his friend. The friend headed off to the Mosque, for his 5th time of the day, and eventually I got back underway, eternally grateful for the ‘shai’ shared with these two men.

Back on the road the fog had lifted a little, so I was feeling more confident about the final 7 miles in the dark, but then the rain came on even heavier than before and my cadence lifted in protest.


Receiving a message from my host for the night – enquiring about my arrival time – I responded that it should be by half past 8. I only had two miles to cover, and that was 45 minutes away.


But then, as I careered down towards a bridge, a large drain cover covered the road, wide gaps much bigger than my bike tyres, lay in between the slats, there was nothing for me to do but hop as best I could, the back tyre landing heavily on the other side. Relieved to get across unscathed I slowed to lift the bike over the next one, and then realised I’d blown my back inner tube. It was absolutely pouring down, and less than a mile to go, but there was nothing else for it, than to change it.


At 9 o’clock, I rang the door of The Old House guesthouse, situated just below Karak castle on a rocky outcrop, drenched and covered with mud, I apologised for my late arrival, ‘it took a little longer than expected’, I said. Then my host uttered the immortal words, ‘would you like some dinner?’ Rustling up some delectable chicken shawarma and fries, while I was in the shower. Do you like Pespi? He enquired, before informing me that he was leaving me to it, ‘is there anything else that you need’? Thank you, no, I think I’ll be fine.

The King’s Highway Day 1: Amman – Madaba

Distance: 22.09 miles

Time: 2:42:55

Elevation: 1611 feet

Average Speed: 8.1 mph

Looking at today’s route out of Amman, I could tell that it wended its way over the hilltops – to avoid the busy roads on the valley floor. Still suffering with a bad cold, I considered opting out of the steep climbs, to try weaving in and out of the poorly flowing traffic instead. A brief spell in the traffic seemed alright, and I quite enjoyed the flow, reminding me of my exit out of Hanoi almost 4 years before.


But the route turned off sharply up ahead and I was also interested to see what the hills would be like. I passed through some narrow alleys where a colourful market was in full swing, then the road turned steeply to the left. I tried to engage my lowest gear, but one or two pedal revolutions later, the chain had slipped and I had to act fast to unclip before I toppled over. I’d installed a new rear derailleur just before I’d left, and although it seemed to be set up fine when tested on the flat roads near my home, it would appear that perhaps wasn’t the case.


I got up the first steep ramp in stages, but between the malfunctioning gears and the gradient, it hadn’t been pretty. Impatient to get moving I made some impromptu adjustments and kept on fighting up the hill. The road meandered higher and higher, reaching almost 1000 metres, the surroundings becoming less salubrious as I went. As I reached the summit of the first hilltop settlement, it felt impoverished and cut off, and when the afternoon call to prayer began reverberating around the buildings, I stopped and soaked in the atmosphere.


Back on a major road, I passed a variety of roadside cafes and food stalls, the roadsides were starting to feel like those in Vietnam, it was quite comforting after my ride there. I came across a large square and stopped to take photos of the Abu Darwish Mosque, a large building I’d seen on the skyline from the Citadel the day before. As I lingered a group of teenage boys walked by, they called out a welcome before one asked ‘if I liked Palestine’. What would Rishi say? I briefly considered, before thinking of something else.


The route kept off the main road from now on, cutting through sparse housing developments and up and over steep rises to keep moving forwards. Eventually the housing petered out and I was passing through farmland on a very quiet road. Stray dogs looked too bored to attack and kids looked on inquiringly


After working my way across the countryside for some miles, I realised I was close to my stop for the night, Madaba. Passing through the outer reaches, I tried to follow the route on the tiny screen of my GPS, in bright sunshine, making several missteps, and passing along roads that I doubted many tourists would usually encounter, before eventually arriving at the Black Iris Hotel.


While I paused before going inside, a large group of boys gathered around, seemingly interested in my bike, and the aforementioned GPS unit, and in good spirits. They had just asked me the age-old burning question of Messi or Ronaldo when the hotel proprietors came out to shoe them away. Messi I’d responded, which annoyed the boy who’d asked, but seemed to be appreciated by his friends. Well, the ones in Argentina tops anyway.


Checking into the Black Iris Hotel was a pleasant experience, so I elected to have dinner in the hotel. Being only a little after 4 o’clock, I had some time to spare, so deliberated between the 12 mile return trip over to Mount Nebo, which would afford views of Jerusalem and the Dead Sea, or to make a quick dash down to St George’s Greek Orthodox Church, home to the Madaba Map, a mosaic map known as being the earliest cartographic depiction of Jerusalem and the Holy Land, dating from the 6th Century AD.

The walled city of Jerusalem is at the centre of the image with the Dead Sea above that. Jordan itself would be above the Dead Sea but much has been lost.


Only being an hour left until sunset, I opted for the map. Unfortunately, the area that contained Madaba itself had been destroyed, but I did find Karak just on the edge of the remains, and that’s where I hoped to stop tomorrow.


As I made my way back from the church, I found the heart of Madaba to be very pleasant and slightly regretted opting to have dinner at the hotel. Passing by a very busy food counter, I noticed that they were selling Chicken Shawarma, and as it was the first place I’d spotted that did, I couldn’t help but try one. As it was dinner soon, I went small, at the princely sum of 67 pence. Simply prepared, I received a wrap with a light spreading of tahini sauce and thin slices of hot succulent chicken. It was very tasty, and I was pretty sure this would be better than what the hotel would provide.


Unsurprisingly I was right, but they did put on quite a feast, with soup, big bowls of hummus and baba ganoush, salads, kofta and rice and a chicken and potato stew. Following that was a big slab of baklava, which was very nice, but I particularly enjoyed washing it all down with a bottle of Petra Blonde Ale, as brewed in Jordan.

The King’s Highway: On the March

On the run up to the trip, I’d had a busy few days at work, and then, two days beforehand I was struck down with a cold. The weather outside was appalling with gusting 50 mile an hour winds, so I retreated to the kitchen, and boxed up my bike in there. Luckily I’d ended up with an enormous bike box from Decathlon, but was it too big? Its length was 195 cm and the length for an oversized bag was meant to be a maximum of 190 cm…


Arriving at the airport in plenty time, I was relieved to see that at 21.2 kg, my box was comfortably under the 23 kg weight restriction, and that seemed good enough for the check in staff. Getting to the oversized baggage point, however, I was momentarily alarmed when asked to match up my 195 cm bike box alongside a 3D template of a 160 cm one. ‘Oh it’s ok, it’ll still go’ I was assured, ‘you just need to take it over to that room at the far end of the hall as it’s too big to go through our scanners’. Whilst I watched another member of staff opening up the box and carefully searching through all of the contents, it did make me think about all the other bike boxes that I’d brought to this airport that would have been too big to go through their scanners…


The two flights went smoothly enough, the final stretch into Amman circumventing Israel by heading further west over Egypt, and then approaching from the South. Rushing around the airport after landing, at midnight, I procured some Jordanian Dinars and a new SIM card before meeting up with the driver of the van who was hopefully going to squeeze a very large bike box in the back. As the driver didn’t speak English, the manager of the hotel had also come along in a car, to meet me off the plane.


Once back at the hotel he pushed me to pay for the return leg as well – as van drivers were difficult to procure – then proceeded to charge me an eye-watering fee given the prices that should have been involved. In my depleted state, I paid what he asked, but I had been totally ripped off. And, as I lay in bed that night, there was no way I could make the numbers add up to what I’d been charged, even if I paid for the ‘van and car’ combination both ways!


Looking at it pragmatically, if I placed a value – to me – of being able to get my bike to and from the airport in the middle of the night, and storing my bike box for a week while I was away, as well as somewhere to stay at the beginning and end of the trip, maybe the manager had achieved that figure. That’s the way I’ll look at it anyway, as long as the van arrives to take me back to the airport next week…

Jordan 2023: The King’s Highway

Up In The Air

At the culmination of my lap of Iceland in the summer, I was asked ‘what’s next’? I quickly responded that somewhere warmer might be nice, like a winter escape to Jordan… And it might be nice, I’ll find out very soon!

Usually, when I’m planning a cycling trip, it develops gradually into a vague outline and a smattering of half-formed ideas, then I book the flights, and quickly those half-formed ideas become a plan. On this occasion, after several months of agonising over which flights to book, a sudden price drop forced my hand, and only then did I think to check out the news flash about the Gaza strip which had just flashed across my phone screen.

From that moment, an air of uncertainty hung over my planning: firstly when British Airways extended the duration of the flights in and out of Jordan, presumably deeming it prudent to take steps to avoid flying directly over a war zone; and secondly when they cancelled my homewards flight, offering up the possibility to postpone my trip until a time when the region appeared slightly less volatile. On considering my alternatives, I quickly realised that I would almost certainly end up claiming a refund on the flights to Jordan, then immediately replace them with cheap flights to Egypt, a country also bordering Israel and the Palestine Territories, but in which I had done no research at all. So, Jordan it was…


Jordan was somewhere that had appealed for many years, my interest piqued by photos of the red sandstone tombs of Petra glowing in the slowly-setting desert sun.
In recent years, the country had positioned itself as a safe haven for adventure in the middle of a turbulent region, so, when I first learned about the Jordan Trail, a mixed terrain mountain biking and trekking route running 400 miles down the middle of the country, I took notice. In calculating my remaining annual leave for the year, it was clear that I didn’t have enough days left to undertake the full thing, but surely I could find something to entertain myself?


In reading about the Jordan Trail route, there was regular mention of a road, ‘The King’s Highway’, an old communication path down the spine of the country, starting in Damascus, Syria, and finishing up at Aqaba on the Red Sea. Regarded as being one of the oldest roads in the world, it was documented in the bible and dotted with Roman ruins and Crusader Castles along its length.


The 250 mile stretch from the Jordanian capital, Amman, to Aqaba appeared to have some of the most impressive landscape features, bisected by the towering gorge of Wadi Mujib, tiptoeing around the edge of the Dana Biosphere Reserve, before descending to the spectacular desert landscapes of Wadi Rum on its final approach to the sea.


Oh, and in case I forgot to mention, it passes Petra along the way..