The previous day was a turning point. After conquering the peaks of Troodos, our journey was winding down, especially for Sasha, who had to fly back home early the next morning.
But even though we rode around it, we never actually made it to Troodos itself — and we really wanted to, for a proper finale to the trip. After mulling it over, we decided that a hundred versts is no detour, we'd drop by Troodos, since we wouldn't have to deviate too much from the direction to Limassol — except maybe upwards. In the morning, a long, drawn-out climb awaited us (also known as a drag in bike tourer slang), and after storming the 1800 meters of Mount Troodos — a descent all the way to the sea. In theory, this sounds great, but what would it be like in practice?
We conquered the climb without much hassle. The village at the peak, sharing the mountain's name, is packed with tourists, including casual bikers who got hauled up in a jeep with a trailer and just roll down under their own power. Not very hardcore, but definitely chill. We didn't stick around too long, grabbed some lunch, and rolled on down. Unfortunately, I forgot my sunglasses at the hotel in Pedoulas, and when you're flying downhill at 40-50 km/h, they become a rather essential accessory. Sadly, the human eye isn't designed to take a bug impact at that speed, so you have to resort to artificial means of protection. I couldn't buy glasses on the way down, no matter how hard I tried.
Descending from two kilometers down to almost zero is a thrilling business. A speed of 40 km/h doesn't seem fast anymore, we got used to that in the previous days. 50 is alright, but after half an hour you get used to that too, and since you don't have to pedal, it starts feeling a bit boring, it'd be nice to hit 60. When 60 comes around, you're happy, but you want to push it to 70. But no! There are too many turns, the wind resistance is huge, and mountain bikes just aren't designed for this speed — the front chainrings are too small, the tires are too knobby, and the riding position isn't aerodynamic enough.
But the process itself is inspiring — you're flying down, the wind is whistling, the landscapes are rushing by. True, you can't really look around much — the urge to go faster is too strong.
View from Troodos
In just a couple of hours we flew through 50 km and reached the outskirts of Limassol. There, the last 5-10 km dragged on slowly and painfully — the city traffic kicked in, figuring out where to turn, and besides, starting to pedal again after two hours of descending was the last thing we wanted. Thank God we managed to tuck in behind a stinking tractor for a two-kilometer mini-climb. If anyone doesn't know, riding a bike right behind a vehicle, even very fast, is a piece of cake because it creates an air "pocket," a low-pressure zone, where not only is air resistance very low, but it practically pulls you along, and you barely have to turn the pedals, even at forty km/h.
On the way, you can refuel with wine from a fountain
In Limassol, we ran into yet another hassle. If you count the boxes falling as the first, the wheel replacement as the second, and the broken chain as the third — then this one is completely off the charts.
When the bus to Larnaca arrived, and we were just about to load up our bikes, the driver started waving his arms and yelling that the bikes had to be "closed," whatever that meant. All attempts to reason with him failed, so I snapped a pic of his ID and wrote down the bus number. When I called the bus company before the trip, they didn't say anything about packing the bikes, and there is no such information on the website either. So far, I haven't mustered up enough energy for a bigger scandal than submitting a request on their website, but the company easily ignores these scribbles. Call the operator? That's just a girl on the line, she couldn't care less about your complaint. I need to write to the Cyprus Tourism Organisation, maybe they'll put these dimwits in their place, but I still haven't gotten around to it, I just don't have the strength or health to scribble complaints right now.
After such a bummer, even the locals tried to help us out by calling a minibus, but the last one leaves a little before six. Fortunately, I had a number I'd dug up in advance on a forum https://web.archive.org/web/20150815215437/https://www.russiancyprus.info/ — the number of a sharp lad named Oleg, originally from Mother Russia, who drove us to Larnaca along with our bikes for a quite reasonable price (about 45 euros, I think). Let me remind you that two days earlier they tried to charge us three times as much for a third of the distance. On the way, the driver told us a lot of interesting facts about the country, its people, and immigrants. A lot of the facts were a bit juicy, so, alas, they won't make it into this blog. From his story, I gathered that Cyprus is a welcoming country, there's little crime here, life is good, though they keep a tight lid on immigration, and those who weren't lucky enough to be born a citizen have a hard time.
Oleg dropped us off on the shore of the Larnaca Salt Lake, where near Mackenzie Beach, on Nietzsche Street (sic!), our apartments were located. We bid a warm farewell and made our way to the family-run Lake & Sea view apartments — which market themselves as having a view of the lake on one side, and the sea on the other. You can see a tiny sliver of both, but marketing is marketing.
The apartments turned out to be less fancy than the ones in Agia Marina, smaller in size, with very few dishes and appliances, but overall everything was quite decent, and there was a pool in the courtyard. I didn't actually get in it, though — rode during the day, and by evening it got too cold. But even just sitting in a lounge chair next to the illuminated crystal-clear water and chatting with parents and friends on Skype from my phone was really nice.
It turned out that Mackenzie Beach, right next to our apartments, is a party spot full of nightclubs, bars, restaurants, and similar machines for burning through life. It's located at the end of a super long promenade that runs through the whole city.
I still can't get used to this feeling, it feels like a mirage and will soon dissipate. Basically, that's exactly what will happen — ahead is work again, chores, and all sorts of unresolved problems. But for this bright and fleeting moment of rest you break out of the daily grind, rejoice in what you see, and, with any luck, you'll preserve warm memories in your heart.