Shredding in Persia
Fine mountain biking from the capital of Tehran to the Caspian Sea
Fine mountain biking from Iran’s capital to the Caspian Sea
My head pounds as the taxi driver merges into the traffic while honking like a madman. The two bike bags in the back push against me from behind. It’s a miracle that they even made it into the yellow Saipa. Andrew Neethling, Martin Bissig and I can’t believe Tehran’s rush-hour traffic. There are three lanes, but five seem to be in use. It’s Friday. That’s when it’s Sunday in Iran. Everyone has the day off. Our Swiss guide planned our trip and created a very precise Swiss schedule for us. The plan sounds great: a few days in Tehran, then off to the mountains around Iran’s capital city, a detour into a skiing area, then up north to the Caspian Sea and finally into the desert. Then he connected us with Hassan, our local guide.
Hassan is an Iranian mountain bike national coach. He tells us – in rather poor English – that he’s also a mechanic. After we get our bikes ready, we ride through Tehran’s city park at the city’s southern periphery. First on asphalt, then on gravel, and then finally uphill on the single trail. Passing by the large military facilities, we slowly gain elevation, metre by metre. Hassan says, “Better no photos, please!” Otherwise, the military could arrest us on charges of espionage.
Everyone here is very interested in our opinion of the country. Unfortunately, we can’t say a whole lot quite yet, having landed only recently. Other than the ground being sandy and dust-dry, the traction is rather good. During our first rest, we get to enjoy the view. All around us, we see plenty of barren hills with several trails and paths. There’s desert landscapes as far as the eye can see – no green in sight. The route gets steeper. We pant toward the summit and at the top can’t produce a single word because we’re so out of breath. The view is spectacular. From up here, you can see all of Tehran. Extending all the way to the horizon, the city of 14 million looks like a giant carpet of a settlement that was placed across the valley, framed by the high mountains. Luckily, there’s no smog
in sight today. “Very, very luck,” says Hassan. Normally the sky looks rather brown than blue, our guide says in his broken English. From here, Hassan recommends the trail route: just the right way to enjoy the many panoramas as the narrow trail, riddled with a few rock passages, gets steeper. The ground is hard and dusty, but offers excellent traction for the knobs. The curves provide a great grip, while a few climbs here and there work the cardiovascular system. We continue on our path for the next hour or so before making our way back into the traffic chaos of the metropolis. Dizin is a ski resort built in the ’70s. Back then, the Shah, who fled the country 40 years ago this past January, was still in charge of Iran. The gondolas from the era look accordingly safe. Like little colourful Easter eggs, they hang off their wire. At least they’re painted in a contemporary purple. Weightless in the gondola, we glide past the 3,000-m mark. Here in the Alborz mountain range, there are several summits higher than 4,000 m. But are there any trails up here? Nope. But a rough gravel road takes turns with skid-proof clay soil and makes us scream out in excitement in the fast curves. At this height, it gets really cold when the sun disappears behind the mountain. We’re in dire need of down jackets, hot
soup or a tea – ideally all of them together. Ash is the name of the national dish that is served at almost every corner, a large vegetarian pot of soup that cooks over an open flame. Hassan orders it for us. It tastes good and warms us up, too.
I wake up on an incredibly beautiful Persian carpet. My back may hurt, but the down sleeping bag kept me warm. Our accommodation is a house without beds, merely equipped with carpets, which is the norm. At 1,000 m, we have to start hiking instead of biking. We want to have breakfast up high under the sun. We carry and push our bikes through a forest. Wafts of mist slowly give way to sunrays. The trees are thin but are covered in thick, green moss. Many of the leaves have already assumed their golden autumn colours. Hassan then rides ahead; Andrew and I follow suit. With the increasing height, the vegetation also changes. We pedal among large beech trees and through green leaves. Suddenly, it gets greener than we ever would have expected from Iran. Then, two huge dogs block our way.
We look up and see two shepherds having breakfast in the warm sun. Their dogs respond to a whistle. The mountain herdsmen invite us to join them for food and tea. Hassan translates: “Very friendly people.” There is flatbread, fresh cheese, homemade honey and some vegetables.
The dogs follow us as we head toward the summit. We cover the last few metres by climbing up the mountain. Up here, there are no more trees. There are a few huts beneath the summit. At the top, the wind whistles in our ears. There’s a spectacular view of the 5,600-m-high Mount Damavand, the tallest mountain in the Alborz range.
The first part of our descent requires a bit of skill, as there are blocked rock passages and several sharp bends. Then, it begins to flow more and gets quite fast on the old sheep trails. Andrew doesn’t try to hide his history as a downhill World Cup rider and gets air wherever possible. His rear wheel turns this thing into a video game for me as I constantly have to react to the rocks that suddenly appear in front of me. There’s even more fun laater in the forest, where the leaves lie on the ground, making track selection both difficult and slippery. Hassan had already announced it earlier: “Singletrack very beauty.” He didn’t oversell it.
At night, we arrive at the Caspian Sea. On the beach, we meet Hassan’s biking friends. Being a national coach, he seems to know the whole country. By a campfire, we discuss the schedule for the next day. Since the consumption of alcohol is prohibited in Iran, we drink tea instead of beer, again. The term “Caspian Sea” is actually deceptive. We, of course, have to check how salty the world’s largest inland lake actually is. It’s not even that cold. We dry ourselves by the fire.
Our trail highlight is set to take place the next day. Andrew and I get excited like children when Hassan’s buddies Mohammed, Mehed, Tehali and Behzad tell us their story: 16 km of downhill trail is on schedule.
Hassan sleeps outside, but in the middle of the night, he joins us on the flying carpet. It had started raining. The next morning, none of us can believe our eyes, because it’s raining buckets outside. For now, the dream trail will remain but a dream. Our schedule is tight, so we decide to continue riding toward the desert.
Hassan’s downhill team riders Taheli and Behzad join us. Full of motivation, they want to show us their country at its best, which is something all Iranians seem to do. “Where are you from?” they ask. “Do you want tea? Bavaria, Munich? Borussia Dortmund? Götze? Selfie?” Always in that order.
On our way to the desert, we stop at a local downhill track. Wide, tree-free slopes make for a completely different mountain biking experience. Once again, we are as impressed by the trails as we are by the landscape. Hassan is extremely proud that we like it so much. To him, this strip of land is his personal Red Bull Rampage track: “Like Utah – don’t you think?”
The next few trails are once again near Tehran, where we do a few final rounds together with our new Iranian friends. Soon, it’s time to say goodbye to a country that couldn’t be more diverse and more contradictory. The people here are incredibly open and think in very Western terms, quite different from the picture we had of them and what one might expect based on media reports. One thing is certain – Iran, we will be back.