That's not how it turned out.
After a day of preparation in Bandar e Lengeh, I'm on the bike at 4:30am. Still dark. I find my way out of town. I've done 15km already. It's starting to get light. Bastak 155. The dental floss was wrong. Should still make Bastak today. Flat. Making high 20's when the grade's with me, low 20's when it's against me. Good speeds. Easy.
55km of coastal plains. Now there's a climb. Should drop down the other side, then follow the valley to Bastak.
Still optimistic. Ignorance is a wonderful thing.
Goodbye to the coastal plains
Hello world of pain 
The road ahead is not flat
There's no river valley. The river is in a gorge winding through crumbling hills. I die. I live again. It's hard to explain the highs and lows of cycling across country. Elation. Despair. From 9am I'm looking for shade. At 10:30 I find some. It's a truck stop. A few deserted buildings. A toilet block. A simple mosque floored with carpets. A guy cooking kebabs over charcoal. I've already drunk 7 and a half litres today. I'm in an oven. I'm done.
I spend the whole day on a wooden platform or under a tree in the yard, talking to motorists who stop for cold water or prayer. Most have no more English than "Hello Mister. How are you." My Farsi doesn't add much. Donkeys wander in from the road.
I leave as the light comes. 5:30. Should be 75 left to Bastak. It's gentle for a few then a big climb. My legs haven't rested. They pick up where they finished yesterday. An oncoming truck decides to overtake another. I take to the gravel. It's too steep to start again. I walk up. Too ashamed to wave back to the cars. After a hairpin I can get back on and ride through the top. The descent is much smaller than the climb. Then it undulates. Bastak 25. One hour. Bastak 15. One hour. Bastak 8. One hour. I'll be on my stomach, 100m from Bastak, still one hour away. The traffic still beeps and waves. I'm not waving now. Not even a nod. I can't spare it. It's just me and pain. After forever, I roll into Bastak. It's 9:30.
As the buildings gather there are two men with cars to the side of the road. They want me to stop. This time I stop. They are from Khalij e Fars TV. They want to film me. They call around for someone who speaks English. They get shots of me riding into town. Then I interview myself to the camera. I follow them into town and into the station office. They want me to meet the Station Manager. First I put trousers on.
Inside, I meet the whole building. Into and out of offices. Shaking hands. The one who speaks English eventually pushes through and relays my story. He's a Doctor. Eventually, I'm shown to the Managers office. He holds court. People come and go. Talk. Are granted favours. We drink tea and eat sweets. Eventually there are no more people and I leave too.
The cameraman and the Doctor want to interview me for the camera. The interview starts with an explanation of how Iran is a peaceful country. With very good democracy. And how President Ahmadenijad wants peace. The cameraman keeps interrupting, and the speech starts from the beginning. Then there are the questions. Finished the interview, the Doctor offers that I stay at his house. I follow the car through the town, the cameraman hanging out the window to film me. The Doctor lives with his brother in a new apartment. It's not quite finished. It's a bachelor pad.
I shower, and the cameraman is back. He wants to show me something for five minutes. We go back to the TV Station. I go into the managers office. There are two men. One smiles. One doesn't. Oh crap.
The smiling one asks to see my passport. He makes four phonecalls, land line and mobile, telling details of my passport and visa to the other end. The calls are interspersed with questions. My itinerary. Occupation. Reason for being in Iran. Meanwhile, the one who doesn't smile harangues me at length about papers for my bike. How can you travel by bicycle with no papers? When you got the visa why didn't they give you papers? In Iran we have very strong security. His voice gets louder. He's leaning forward. My voice gets louder. I'm leaning forward. I'm wanted on the telephone. I start to ask "Who is this?" but it dies at my teeth. I answer the same questions. The Doctor comes in. He starts the speech. Then asks the same questions. The cameraman is nervous. He can't look at me.
The man who doesn't smile says in another town they may want to see papers for my bicycle. I should ask the Station Manager to write me some papers. He's trying to help me not screw me. There's air in the office. I drink tea. The smiling man says everything is ok with my visa. No Problem. I can go. He will make a copy of my passport and the cameraman will bring it to me later. Thanks. I'll wait. He really wants me to go. I wait.
With my passport, I'm dropped back at the Doctor's house. It's 1:30. He's home for lunch. We eat. Then sleep. I wake up when he gets home from work again and he shows me around Bastak City. It's not a city. He tells me what he really thinks of Ahmadenijad. And the state of Iran's democracy. He's a Doctor of political science.
In the evening we eat dinner. My clip should be on the 8 o'clock news. In the human interest section I'm trumped by a riderless horse at a racetrack galloping into a ridden horse, cartwheeling all three, and a goalkeeper who throws the ball at an opposition player, repeated in slow motion. Maybe on the 10 o'clock news. Then we have visitors. I don't see the news. I'm not entirely sure if the whole TV thing was legit.
Friends from Bastak
I leave in the dark. It's 120km to Lar, with two hill sections. I climb gently out of Bastak, then drop into a long winding descent. I crack 77km per hour. I hope this is one of the hill sections. I pass police cars and checkpoints without stopping. I cross a wide flat mountain basin.
Much better looking back
A car with man and woman pass. A girl with bowl hair and earings stands on the back seat looking back at me. The car slows down and pulls over. The man waves me to stop as I pass. I call Salaam and ride on. The car pulls out and passes me again. So far so common. The car stops again and the man waves me to stop. I stop. We exchange greetings and he says he's a police man. This is the scam. Fake police. Want passport or money. But with wife and kid in the car? I show non-understanding and he shows me a green covered booklet with an emblem with guns and repeats. Police. I still shrug. He pulls up a shirt from behind the seat. It's green. With badges. Okay. I make conversation. He says something which I think means police station. We fail to communicate until we stop trying. I say khoda hafez and ride away. This time when the car passes it doesn't stop.
I reach the second big climb. It's the range that divides Bushehr and Fars provinces. At the top there's a guard house. I don't see anyone. I try to negotiate the chicanes of tractor tyres, judder bars and tyre spikes quickly and quietly. I can't do both. I go for quickly. As I bump over a judder bar I see a person in the doorway. Don't look. I pass the last tyre spikes and change up gears, trying to accellerate without making it too obvious. Then I'm pointing downhill. Flying into Fars.
I grind out undulating miles and it gets hot. There's a town. It's the last town to stop at. Lar is still maybe 45k. I'm going to stop here. I don't stop. I find a spot of shade and stop for lunch.
Finding shade for lunch
It's still getting hotter so I don't stop for long. I crawl my way up to Lar. It keeps getting hotter. There's a parking area with trees and a family are picknicking. I see a sign P 1km. I'll rest there. There it is. No, P 500m. This is it. No, P 100m. P. There's no trees. No shade. No stop.
12 km to go. I just have to climb this hill and roll the last 12 km into Lar. A motorcycle slows. He wants to pull me up the hill. How I've imagined holding onto truck bumpers are car windows. He holds out his hand. I grab it. He changes up the gears without the clutch until we can't go faster. A car comes, and we let go. He drops behind and I pedal on, energised. From the top I do roll all the way into Lar.
Riding towards the centre a grey beard and salwaar kemis yell at me from a motorbike. I give the usual Salaam and ride on. He's next to me again and yelling. He drops behind. He follows me at a distance. I watch him in my mirror. He's on a cell phone. Finally he's gone. I've, gone the wrong way. I'm heading to the airport. I turn around. There he is. He pulls beside me. Now he has a boy and a teenager on the motorbike. They're Afghans. The teen has good English. We talk about the troubles Afghan refugees have. The lack of human rights. Whether it would be better to try and go to Europe. What it is like for refugees in New Zealand. The Beard keeps wanting him to ask me to help getting a visa, but he doesn't ask. They have a wedding party tonight. I'm exhausted. They tell me where the hotel is. There's only one and it's easy to find.
Lar. This one speaks for itself really
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