18.05 to 22.05.2001 Tabriz and the 16th Azerbaijan Bicycle Tour

After a slap up lunch at Habib's, we're back on our various steeds racing through town to catch the last few kilometres of the 16th International Azerbaijan Bicycle Tour, named after the region in Iran rather than the neighbouring country. Slicing through the city centre, the main tumultuous street - Khomeini Boulevard - is curiously empty, briefly cordoned off to the bemusement of passers by, cars and mopeds, resigning themselves to a few moments of unusual dormancy.

We arrive in time to catch the sound of spinning wheels and a blur of riders, closely pursued by a frenzy of support vehicles, cue for a wave of human and mechanical traffic to surge forward once more. Like a perfectly practised set piece, chaotic order is resumed and the race forgotten. We peddle to the finishing post but the riders are long gone. To fill the vacuum, our bike is swallowed by a crowd of cycle enthusiasts who circle us in a tight knot, shaking hands, snapping photos and welcoming us to their city. Somehow, I manage extricate myself from the horde and track down our friend Mehmet from Istanbul, here as trainer of the Turkish team. Wrapping me in a a huge hug and offering Rosal a flower, we follow him to the closing ceremony stadium, a convoy of some thirty cyclists trailing us through the streets like some crazed bike posse.

In the sanctuary of the stadium, we're shown to ringside seats amongst the various teams who have raced the 1045 km tour over the past week - Iranian, Turkish, Kazac and Turkmen amongst others. I look around, taking in this surreal scene. On the right hand side of the hall, a band of Lycra clad youths in neon shorts and skin tight tops sip on glucose drinks. Segregated to the left, a sea of black chadors, women veiled head to toe, gossip away, seemingly oblivious to the event itself but no doubt taking surreptitious peeks at all the legs on show. A country where bagginess is encouraged and the chador is the law - it' s literal translation being the word 'tent' - where but Iran would the sport of cycling seem more out of place?!

A few English speakers are assigned the task of assuring we are well. Heads swivel our way and briefly we feel rather important. The hours roll by and the crowd fidgets and eats ice cream. Readings from the Koran, the Iranian national anthem, flag raising and speeches from local dignitaries finally culminate in the long awaited prize giving. To a medley of drum rolls from a Casio synthesiser, huge trophies are awarded to whippet like riders on a podium swamped by gently bobbing bright balloons. Then its over and the crowd shuffles out, mobbing us rather than the teams, racing after the tandem like a pack of crazed banshees, as reckless on two wheels as any car drivers through the city traffic.

Back at Habib's, the family awaits - further reinforcements of more distant cousins have been called in. Still pleasantly bloated after lunch, we feast our eyes on an even more substantial spread. Home made Dolma - vine leaves stuffed with rice - spinach, chicken and the usual mountain of rice, served on a tablecloth laid out on the carpet as we sit cross legged around it. We work our way through these delights, then gulp down a bowl of eggy ice-cream, more fruit and a cup of tea ( drunk with a rock of sugar wedged between the teeth), before undergoing a thorough photo shoot with every family combination, thankfully retiring to bed, exhausted, at one in the morning.

Never short of hosts, Mehmet and a couple of friends pick us up the next day and we hurl round town in a minibus, sharply accelerating and braking in perfect time with the traffic around, like a modern ballet. Enclosed by mountains, much of the city was flattened during the Iran- Iraq war. Various war torn land marks are pointed out including a hospital that was bombed, killing 200 doctors. The long years of conflict also prompted a mass exodus from Tabriz, as thousands flocked to Mashad and the North East of Iran, as far away from the destruction as possible. Further back in time when the city was capital of Persia, we pass the crumbling remains of a 14th century citadel, from whose rooftop criminals were once flung - the Arge-e Tabriz. In the evening we picnic with other nocturnal picnickers in a park around the Shangoli Shah Lake, once a popular drinking and card playing den before these vices were banned by the Islamic Revolution.

Then we delve into our favourite hunting ground, the bazaar. Some 3 km long, with foundations dating back some 1000 years, we permeate a labyrinthine maze of tunnels lit by cylindrical skylights and naked bulbs, each quarter specialising in its own wares - swathes of material, polished tea erns, sumptuous silken carpets and luminous gold. Like good cyclists, our attention lingers over the confusing array of food - sacs of salted pistachios, bricks of fresh Fetta cheese, tiers of multicoloured spices, sachets of saffron, blocks of walnut helva, obscure dried lemons, crinkled flower teas, crunchy pumpkin seeds and waxy honeycombs, as well as pendulums of meat, animal hooves, tongue and brain, not to mention the concoctions we cannot recognise. Incredibly varied in climate, almost every fruit can be grown in Iran and we cool off with banana, strawberry and kiwi juices. Iranian hospitality is intense and can be quite demanding with our limited knowledge of Farsi.

Not wishing to sound ungrateful, we nevertheless peel ourselves away from Habib's wonderful home with profuse thanks and address swapping. We check into a hotel, less characterful - except for a munchkin cleaner who patrols the corridors - but far easier to finish the writing that needs to be sent. Arrival in a city inevitably entails a few pilgrimages to the Internet cafe to send completed articles, web site updates and placate concerned families. Unlike Turkey, teeming with internet activity, the web is relatively new to Iran and can only track down a cramped office offering rickety telephone booths, a fax machine and one online computer, though many more of the 'educated' Iranians use the Internet behind closed doors. Duly, we connect with the rest of the world and check our virtual letterboxes. Slow and expensive, work can now be forgotten for another week.

But business is never just business in Iran. When it's time to leave Tabriz, owner Mohammed accompanies us on his bicycle out of the city with a friend, until they're turned back by a police car which cruises behind us. Compared even to our guidebook published just a few years ago, things are definitely seem a lot more relaxed in Iran these days, though it seems the authorities still like to remind their own people whose boss.

We wave goodbye and continue alone, refreshed with the incredible hospitality that our first few days in Iran have borne, glad to be back on the road and heading onwards towards the Caspian Sea.