30.04.2001 The Journey Begins...

Heathrow Airport, London. To a backdrop of sheet rain, amid tearful farewells from mum and stern promises to dad 'Not to do anything dangerous', we board our plane to Istanbul, enjoy an Austrian Airlines lunch and emerge just a few hours later in Turkey.

Attaturk Airport, Istanbul. Basking in the golden light of the late afternoon, a wave of heat blissfully beats down on the tarmac. Thankfully the tandem arrives intact - minus front light. A small crowd gathers as we load her up with brand new panniers on the airport' s gleaming marble floors, strapping on our paraphernalia in a very unprofessional manner. 'It's bigger than my car', comments one attendant, watching us struggle with an assortment of Allen keys and bungee cords. He offers us our first cup of Turkish tea, served in the typical small and shapely glasses, sweetened with a lump of sugar.

With a wobbly debut we nervously take to the road, a little alarmed by a stream of high speed traffic exiting the airport. Escaping an eight lane highway, we opt instead for the relative peace of a coastal road, competing with death-wish taxis and negotiating kamikaze road-crossers. We've already learnt the theoretical rules paramount to riding a tandem: Teamwork and Communication... Rosal takes charge of waving and indicating, I swear to keep my white knuckles fixed to the handle bars until I'm more adept at this Formula One inspired Turkish road sense. Indeed, taming such a fully loaded beast is no easy task. Sudden movements throw us into what might loosely be termed the tandem equivalent of a jet plane's flat spin - a series of crescendoing wobbles that threaten to hurl us into the blur of cars.

Yet despite initial concerns, the tandem proves a winner, evoking a mixture of enthusiastic waves, honking horns and jaw-dropping stares. Hitting gridlock, a meld of car fumes and shish kebabs waft our way. Picnickers frolic by the sea of Marmara, pointing us out to their children as we wobble our way through the Sunday evening traffic on our strange looking bicycle.

Powering up a steep climb into Sultanahmet, traveller hub of I Istanbul, we track down Konya Pensiyon, social centre of Japanese backpackers and our abode from our previous visit to Turkey last year. Settling back into a shoebox room, showering under a drizzly shower, it hardly feels like six months have passed since I hung up my travelling shoes. Back from cycling between Sydney and London I've barely stopped checking under my bed than I'm on the road once again, ready to move from hotel to campsite to wherever our wheels may lead us. Apprehensions ebb away, replaced with a wonderful feeling of excitement. Our neighbouring room is knee high in Turkish carpets and a family of birds have nested in the chandelier - I feel very much at home.

Outside, little's changed: the backpacker trail winds on forever. The same faces, just different people. An inviting string of Internet cafes, carpet shops and tea houses, ready to serve our every need. The perfect starting point to our journey into the East; officially announced by the melancholy calls of azans from silhouetted mosques and minarets, beckoning the faithful to prayer. Stowing our steed and gear in the warren-like corridors of the pension, we head out into the night.

Day 1, over and out.