The dusty roads of Iran unfold before our not-so-easy riders as they journey on their trusty Enfields to the cheery sound of rattling tappets. Geoff Hill continues the saga of a two-man motorbike journey from Delhi to Belfast
The Tuesday train from Quetta in Pakistan to the Iranian border finally arrived on Saturday. Even Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid would have refused to rob it. Our compartment, the best on the train, looked like it had been raked with Kalashnikov fire, then finished off by a mad axeman.
The train dumped us in the middle of nowhere, and we rode off down the road towards the border. And promptly ran out of fuel, since the good citizens of Quetta had drained the tanks before loading the bikes on the train.
It was 51° C and within minutes a sandstorm had blown up, clogging every part of our Enfields so thoroughly that I doubted they would ever start again. "Well, at least things can't get any worse," I shouted at Patrick Minne, as through the storm came the dim figures of several armed men. This was the end. I looked at Paddy, and he looked at me, as the bandits approached.
The first stopped before us and unslung his rifle. "Sorry to bother you, chaps, but do you need petrol?" he said politely. We nodded dumbly. They led us to an encampment of mud huts, filled both tanks from drums of smuggled Iranian petrol, and charged us the equivalent of 50p.
Next morning we crossed the border and rode north through Iran. All that day the sun flayed us, fierce sandstorms poured salt on the wounds, desert rains cooled us and hot winds blew us dry. Through it all, the Enfields plugged away, God bless their little tappets, whatever they are.
It's a remarkably Zen-like activity, riding long distances on an old British bike, alone with your thoughts and with plenty of time to contemplate the stillness at the centre of your being. Which is about the only place that is still on an Enfield.
At rest, there is the slow heartbeat of that huge piston lolloping up and down; at cruising speed a deep purr, like a lion after a particularly satisfying wildebeest, which slowly unscrews all the large bolts on the bike; and at high speed (I mean anything above 50 mph) a finer, more subtle threnody like the wind in telegraph wires, which loosens all the small bolts. Paddy would probably have known a technical term for them all, but to me they sounded like the music of the stars.
By nightfall we were in Bam, as dusty, unshaven and saddle-sore as Clint Eastwood. We found a room for the night in a dark inn and went out for a walk - I wondered what Clint and that other icon of late 20th century life, Father Jack, would have made of Iran, a country which has banned drink and wrapped up women in chadors.
We turned instead to architecture, riding north to Esfehan over the next three days and wandering agog through a city so beautiful that if it was a woman you would want to marry it and have its children, never mind the pain.
Of those minarets, I mean.
Next week: Adventures on the road through Anatolia to Istanbul