Open Throttle, Clean Run

The salt hit before the sun. Lake Tuz, a vast salt basin in central Anatolia, sat under the sky like something unreal, flat, silent, its white crust burning back the horizon. Stretching over 1,035 square miles (1,665 square kilometers), its surface was hard, flat and almost blinding under the daylight. White cracked beneath every tire, reflecting heat and silence in equal measure.

For a moment, navigation took a back seat. This was a stage where speed ruled. Riders opened the throttle wide, hunting for momentum on a surface that gave no grip and offered no shade. Every second felt faster than it was. At full speed, the lake erased depth, noise, and distance, just a shimmering line far ahead and the salt flaring up behind.

But the beauty was deceptive. The salt could turn corrosive, especially in high temperatures. Bikes ran hot, and every mile increased the risk of mechanical strain. The air carried a sting, the wind pushed sideways, and even the smallest misjudgment could snap the flow. It wasn’t technical, but it was brutal in its own way, too fast to think, too flat to hide.

Heading north toward Çorum, the route climbed again, this time to the highest point of the rally. At 6,827 feet (2,081 meters), the stage cut through a wind-blown plateau where the air thinned out and the cold settled in early. The climb didn’t last long, but it was enough to change the light, the mood, and the feel of the throttle.

Soon after, the rally dropped back into the lowlands east of Ankara, where agriculture rules the map. Endless fields of cereal crops, dry from the season, framed the tracks. The dirt was soft and deep, the kind that hangs in the air long after you’ve passed. Overtaking became a matter of timing and trust, you needed to go fast enough to escape the dust cloud ahead, but not so fast that you missed the line altogether.

This was the marathon stage. 263 miles (424 kilometers) of transfer roads, farm trails and loose terrain, with little room for error and even less for rest. Bodies were sore, eyes burned from dust in the wind, and bikes started to show the week’s wear. But the scenery held steady, vast, raw, and shaped by hands that live with this land, not against it.

Some rallies end with fireworks. Others with silence. The 2025 TransAnatolia closed with rain on the windows, the echo of tools being packed, and riders staring at maps that already pointed elsewhere.

Next year, the rally will return, further east, harder, lonelier. That’s the plan. But plans change. What doesn’t is the pull of these roads, the way Anatolia puts something in your hands and takes something back.

If you’re thinking of going, don’t wait for the perfect time. There isn’t one. Just a place on the map and the sound of your own engine, somewhere out there between salt, stone and sky.