Chicken dance anybody?

Aydin Ural is a great friend, a companion on many rides and a very acute thinker. When he commutes from Germany to Turkey, often in the year, he prefers a motorcycle to aeroplane and his motto is “Only riding is better”.  Aydin’s reports are always inspirational; this is not an exception: one of the best examples of “thinking while riding” or “riding and building good thoughts”. Controlling the bike is not enough, applying riding skills is not enough, defending from road users is not enough, and having long/large vision is not enough. What you take from your observation is the important lesson: for planning, for anticipating, for learning, for living well. Keep on reading…

July 2025 – A World in Flux

In the old world order, a man over forty-five with a bit of a belly would have been seen as a sign of wealth and prosperity. In July 2025, that same man is considered mediocre at best; true wealth is displayed by being slim and fit. After all, in both developed and developing countries, staying fit is quite expensive. Those struggling to make ends meet often rely on cheap, fattening junk food.

A similar reversal can be seen in the speed of travel. In the old world order, the rich traveled fast, hopping on planes which were then luxurious and exclusive. In today’s upside-down world, air travel has been democratized, becoming the domain of the masses, while the well-off enjoy the luxury of traveling at a much slower, more pampered pace. They can afford this because their vacations aren’t crammed into a mere seven days and, just as importantly, their methods of travel are comfortable and entertaining.

For those of us who turn right upon entering a plane, air travel has become the most unpleasant form of transport. We are packed like sardines, shuffled through a relentless series of queues for security checks, boarding gates, and airport buses, all while dressing and undressing on command. We are herded like livestock, rushing to arrive hours early only to obey barely comprehensible announcements and end up crammed into uncomfortable seats, wishing we were born shorter.

When I travel to Marmaris from Stuttgart, I do what I do when going from Istanbul back home to Germany: I take the bike.

No, it’s not cheap. But I’ve decided I’m rich enough for this luxury. Abundant fuel, a round-trip set of tires, two nights of lodging and dining, and other small expenses probably add up to the equivalent of a business-class ticket. But that ticket doesn’t buy the fun. Not the joy. Not the lesson.

Questioning whether I am truly that rich led me to consider how to cut costs. It’s possible to save on hotels; one can find excellent accommodations in Eastern European countries at surprisingly low prices. However, sacrificing a good night’s sleep to save a few Euros is foolish, as proper rest is fundamental to travel. And I’m not a tent guy anymore—I like to be in civilization, to explore the city where I’ll spend the night.

Reducing the number of nights is an option. You can ride fast, endure long days in the saddle, and arrive with just a single overnight stay. But then, what’s the point? To ride fast, one must use motorways, and once you’re on a motorway, the fun is over. A ride on a motorway is like carrying your motorcycle on your shoulders, not the other way around. Especially on motorways with speed limits, you get the feeling that you and all the other road users aren’t really driving. You are all fixed to a train, and this train is moving (à la LeShuttle).

Motorways don’t require any finesse in riding; they’re just boring, promote little focus, and are strangely much more tiring than riding on country roads. Logically, a winding, narrow road with two-way traffic should be more difficult, requiring more concentration and skill, and therefore be more tiring. Yet, when riding long distances, I’ve consistently found myself more energized at the end of days that feature fewer motorway sections.

This brings me to the most crucial part of planning: the itinerary. The journey shouldn’t take 12 days instead of a possible two—that may be excessive (though wonderful). But one should certainly arrange an itinerary with more interesting roads than dull ones, and such a route will be neither the shortest nor the fastest. Motorway use might be unavoidable, but it should constitute no more than 50% of the distance (and a much smaller percentage of the time) on any given day, and ideally less than 40% of the entire tour. Then the tour becomes a delight.

Romania and Slovenia are two countries with amazing roads to travel; one should aim for less than 30% motorway usage there. Austria may be a slight exception to this rule, as even its motorways are not boring. Of course, the mountain roads are still better.

A note on fuel range: I believe a touring motorbike’s fuel range is one of its most important comfort features. On motorways, especially where there are no speed limits or you trust your navigator’s speed camera data, you increase your speed, and fuel consumption rises accordingly. In such conditions, a normal 200 km range can plummet to 130–140 km. This means you’ll have to stop at nearly every other gas station. You can still stop and rest whenever you like, but not being forced to stop for fuel means you can stop where you want to, not out of necessity.

A note on rain: I know many good riders dislike laminated jackets and prefer separate raincoats. Although modern raincoats (from brands like Scott, for example) are great—unlike the ones from 25–30 years ago that would leave you soaked in sweat within minutes—you still need to stop to put them on. On a long riding day, rain often comes unexpectedly. You see the sky getting partially covered with dark clouds but also spot clear skies on the horizon in your direction of travel. You hope for the best, expecting a light, short shower, and increase your speed to outrun it. But the sky above gets darker and darker, almost angry, and the clear patch in the distance suddenly vanishes. In an instant, it starts to pour. And it pours hard. Even with your inner layer on (a temperature drop to 12°C on a July afternoon mountain road is normal) and a thick jacket, you can almost feel a stinging pain on your arms from the force of the raindrops. “Is this hail?” you ask yourself. No, it’s just rain… but this is some serious rain. And it continues. Would you have stopped in time to put on a raincoat? I don’t know. In that moment, I feel thankful for the jacket I wear, knowing I will stay completely dry. I just ride on.

On Tourism: As a traveler’s note, don’t skip border towns—they are often hidden gems. Alexandroupolis in Greece and Timisoara in Romania are typical examples. Timisoara, in particular, very close to the Hungarian border, is unbelievable. While Bucharest is a beautiful and vibrant city with happy residents, I never thought I’d find an even more attractive city in Romania.

I like being a tourist. Even though I am now a resident, I still consider myself a tourist in Germany. In Türkiye, too, I have started to feel like a tourist, and I am happy with that feeling. The tourist, in a sense, is selfish. They don’t bear the responsibility for the governance of the city or country they are visiting. They don’t get overly angry about anything and don’t complain much. They aren’t compelled to criticize everything, nor do they feel they’ve done their civic duty simply by complaining. They just mind their own business. They adapt to the rules and behave. They make contact with locals and other tourists, befriending some of them. But there’s a catch: a tourist is never really from there. Even in your own country, if you move to a new city, it takes at least 5–10 years (depending on you and the city) to be considered a local. In some cities, it may take much longer. In a Western European country, it might take three generations.

So, a tourist should be content with that. And a tourist should not be a fool to think they have truly seen a city after spending only a day or two there. It’s like looking at wooden boats on the coast at dawn; you can’t identify their colors correctly. An orange boat might seem dark blue, a light green one dark brown. This is what you perceive of a city in a day or two as a tourist. Only by staying long enough and dedicating yourself to understanding the city can you begin to see its true colors.

And this is certainly not achieved by declaring, “Let’s go to a restaurant where only locals go.” You are so evidently a tourist in that restaurant that, if they let you in, you become a distraction to the community enjoying their space. While you believe you’re observing “local life,” you are, in fact, both an annoyance and a spectacle. Don’t do that. Try to blend in, try to be invited to such places, and behave.

Well, last but not least, let’s talk about riding.

What skill did I develop further on this tour? A short while ago, I watched a YouTube video where the lead guy from MCN UK was chatting with a Rapid Training instructor. The instructor said, “When you go to a supermarket and grab a shopping cart, sometimes you get one with a stuck wheel that won’t swivel, right? The cart won’t turn properly in the aisles.” As someone who always tests a few shopping carts to find the one with the best “handling,” I was all ears. “When you grip the handlebar of your bike tightly,” he continued, “you make it like that shopping cart with a stuck wheel. But when you hold the handlebar in a very relaxed manner, the bike feels like a shopping cart with perfectly turning wheels.”

I started testing this immediately, even before the tour. It may sound trivial or obvious, but it made a huge difference. The more relaxed my grip on the handlebars, the easier, smoother, and more precisely the bike turned. After a while, I began to understand what another instructor had once said: “Hold the throttle as if it’s a waffle cone.”

I had thought it was an exaggeration, but it wasn’t. Yes, I do the silly “chicken dance” test: with hands on the handlebars, you flap your elbows sideways. The problem with this test is that it’s done on a straight line, so it doesn’t test if your grip stays relaxed while cornering. It’s easy to instinctively tense up while cornering, gripping the handlebars tightly and making the bike behave like that miserable shopping cart.

Yet, when you hold on to the bike with your legs—your knees gripping the tank tightly, your boots pressed against the chassis—you no longer need your arms to hold on. During a corner, if you bring your body closer to the handlebars, your arms only need to make one slight input. You hold the throttle like a waffle cone, and the bike does the rest, moving as if it were a living creature.

This one technique was all I tried to perfect during the tour. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t tense before—I was relaxed. But becoming even more relaxed pays incredible dividends.