In bright sunshine the next morning, we set off for the high-altitude camp "Bargahsevom" at 4200 m, the last one before the summit. We want to see how far Mount Damavand can be climbed by bike. However, the astonished to pitying looks of the oncoming mountaineers clearly lower our confidence. And indeed, we can only ride the first few meters on the dusty single trail, then we have to push - the remaining 1,200 metres up to the camp. Only the prospect of riding down this path again motivates us to push our bikes uphill, bend by bend...
...We haven't gone far when we hear oriental music echoing through the mountain air. Three older Iranians have made themselves comfortable behind a rock: they are enjoying the freedom of the mountains with a radio and home-brewed spirits. With a big "hello", they invite us into their circle to celebrate with them. Late in the afternoon we reach the high camp, exhausted. A kind of concrete bunker awaits us here as accommodation, which is already filled to the brim with almost 40 people. And as the air inside is, to put it mildly, breathtaking, we decide to camp. Platforms have been piled up all over the scree field around the camp, making it almost like a campsite. Some of us are already feeling the effects of altitude sickness, so our little tent fortress turns into a hospital during the night. Getting any further by bike is out of the question in this terrain.
Departure from Mt Damavand
fter a day relaxing in the sun, we decide to set off. And it's a tough one. The upper section requires maximum concentration. The tight hairpin bends demand all our riding skills. We hardly get a chance to appreciate the unique panorama. Further down, the donkey path winds between hard-leaved bushes and thistles through a breathtaking landscape. The air contains enough oxygen again and it is getting warmer. The last discomfort of the altitude has disappeared as we roll the last few meters to the camp along a gentle, playful path.
Over the next few days, we explore the area around Damavand. We are greeted with joy in every village. For being tourists in Iran, for cycling, for simply being there - it's like a dream. Strangers give us fruit and invite us into their homes. We are served whatever the pantry has to offer. Friends and acquaintances come by just to take a look at us. Most of them don't speak a foreign language, but a smile over a glass of tea often says more than many words.
Sometimes we struggle to get going again and our guide has to practice the highest level of Persian diplomacy until we can continue. We roll through olive groves, along small streams, over dusty gravel roads, cruise through narrow tufa gorges and down endless single-track serpentines. It is warm and sunny. In the evening, we always have a sumptuous meal, simply squatting on the obligatory Persian carpets without a table or chairs, accompanied by liters of sweet tea from the samovar - the large silver kettle with a small pot of tea brew perched on top and found in every household - and, of course, hookahs with sweet fruit tobaccos. Even the non-smokers in our group can't resist...
