Syria Bicycle Diaries: reactions and observations of a cyclist in a new place without a bike of his own

I’m really interested to hear what Syrians or other residents of Damascus have to say about this. I wrote it for the inaugural issue of Fixed, And One, a new magazine from the awesome guys over at Fixed And What. Check out their website and go follow them on Facebook and Twitter, yeah?

I was a London cyclist. I rolled up the chain-side leg of my jeans to the calf. I rode a racer, single-speed but not fixed. I clipped into my pedals because riding’s more efficient that way. I rode to and from work every day. I donned a messenger bag or traditional rucksack depending on the day’s cargo. I’d return to the pub the next morning to retrieve my bike, if need be. One time I was so desperate to catch a train that I left my bike chained to the street railing in front of Kings Cross-St Pancras station — not even the main entrance, but that crappy secondary one at the bottom of Pentonville Road where you get the Thameslink — for two whole days at the mercy of local crackheads. I took a slightly different route almost every day to avoid boredom. I got grease stains in strange places. I developed an intense hatred of vehicular traffic and could back up anti-car arguments with statistics, controlled experiments and anecdotes. I took small pleasure in overtaking fellow cyclists, but was never obnoxious about it. I took enormous pleasure in overtaking those twats on electrified cycles, especially on the uphill. In fact, I’ve always had a slightly sadistic pleasure about uphills. I figure you’ve got to attack the hills, attack them with all your strength, minimizing your time on them, so that you can properly and justly enjoy the reward as you pass over the crest. I was a London cyclist.

But after five years, I moved to Syria. I suppose it was possible to bring my bike with me on the plane, but it wasn’t exactly feasible financially. I reckoned I’d be able to pick up a used one for the 9 months I was here and then sell it back before leaving. My living and working situation would change, so while I knew I wouldn’t cycle every day for commuting purposes, perhaps I could at least putter around every once and a while to explore the city. But there was one major problem I hadn’t foreseen.

There is no cycling culture here.

On the Syrian road, the car is king, closely followed by service taxis (ubiquitous white minivans) which operate like buses but stop on demand like a taxi. Next on the pecking order come all the motorized two-wheelers — motorcycles, scooters, other electric pedal-pushers — whose greatest advantage is their ability to weave amongst the chaos. After that come large and oversize vehicles which must wait patiently, albeit with blaring horns, for sufficient openings in traffic before making their move; these are your buses, delivery trucks, municipal vehicles. Finally, there are pedestrians, last on the road food chain, at the mercy of all others. Pedestrian crossings — signalled or not — are virtually unheard of in the capital, Damascus, and if you happen to see one you’ll be lucky if it’s a) functional or b) obeyed by anyone. Respect for the un-vehicled is extremely low. And, unfortunately, cyclists fall into this category.

Besides the low cyclist awareness, there are the roads themselves. Now, I don’t want to be too harsh on Damascus. It is after all a very modern, contemporary, multi-layered capital city with many features and amenities that you’d see in any European or North American city. Not all roads in Damascus are uneven, potholed disasters, half dug-up by some constructions crew weeks ago, left stagnant, basically unusable, for weeks to come til a different crew comes along to finish the job. Not all Damascus roads are too narrow, without painted lanes or physical distinction between vehicular surface and pedestrian walkway. Not all Damascus roads are polluted, obstructed, torn-up death traps — but most of them are.

This is not to say that bicycles and cyclists are nonexistent here. In a normal day in the capital you might need a dozen or more. In terms of style, bicycles are predominantly geared toward utility. The vast majority are old and rusty, double top-tube, steel framed city bikes fitted with all kinds of functional apparatus like baskets, racks, cardboard boxes, wooden crates, wheeled trailers, etc. These account for some 85% of the bikes on the road. The remainder are divided between, on the one hand, mountain bikes, stunt bikes and juniors’ bikes ridden by males around 16-years-old and younger, and, on the other hand, the broad category of “the strange and unusual” which include various 3-wheeled, 4-wheeled, hand-cranked, homemade and other contraptions. In my time here in Syria I have seen one — one — bike that could be described as a hybrid, and not a single road bike or racer. Considering the dominant demographic of riders and their purposes for cycling, it sounds almost silly to even note that there are no folding bikes of any kind in Syria. 

All Syrian cyclists are male. One hundred per cent. Riders come in all ages but most are old men around 50 years and older. Kids are seen puttering about in residential areas, perhaps with nanny in tow. Small packs of teens are seen cruising the street, pausing for packs of crisps at the corner shop or in a vacant area for a quick kickaround. Notably absent from the scene are university age twenty-somethings, perhaps the most iconic demographic of cyclists in London. I don’t think there are many “pure” commuters in the sense of cycling from home to work or school and back, not necessarily with much cargo other than the daily necessities that can fit inside a small bag.

Is there potential or possibility for change? Can a London-like cycling culture emerge here in Damascus? I doubt it, at least in the short term, for two main reasons: culture and history. 

Culturally, recreational sports are less popular in Syria and the wider Middle East than, say, in Europe and North America. This has charged somewhat in recent years as global sports markets have penetrated the region with their superstar players and dream teams, providing younger generations with new athletic role models. Football is far and away the most popular sport for young people of both sexes and there are many local leagues for adult men to participate in. Despite this, the most popular leisure activity is simply hanging out, talking, smoking cigarettes and nargileh (water pipes with fruity tobacco), drinking coffee and tea, playing table games like cards, chess and backgammon, basically chewing the fat.

But let’s pretend that tomorrow all the conditions for cycling magically become perfect all at once. All roads are widened, freshly paved, painted, cleaned. Crossings and suitable lights are install and — imagine it — actually obeyed by vehicles. Let’s pretend pedestrians, and by extension, cyclists gain a new kind of respect. Gone are the days of being bullied around by the motorized hoards. Despite all this, I would argue, cycling would not increase dramatically. Look at other Middle Eastern countries where infrastructural development and greater leisure time led to even stronger car cultures. This is probably most evident in the oil-rich gulf countries, where it’s increasingly normal to drive your 4x4 Ford Excursion 100 yards down the road to buy a McDonald’s burger.

Before coming to Syria I could hardly imagine going nine months without riding a bike. Just the prospect would have made me crazy. Today, a little less than half-way through my time here, I not only dread the idea of cycling the streets of Damascus, but I also find myself quite enjoying seeing life from a new perspective — my own two feet.

Click here to see my complete photo set of cyclists and bicycles here in Damascus, Syria