The Russian gets up at dawn and heads north. He’s got some proper mikes to do today.

I give it an hour, go and take some pictures of some old solid rocket booster parts kicking about outside my window, as you do, and follow. Back to riding alone and all the things that come with it.

It’s blowing a proper bastard crosswind and it’s making life very very difficult, quite scary and not a little bit dangerous. It’s impossible to explain to someone that doesn’t ride a bike exactly what riding in these conditions is like. There is so much turbulence behind the trucks in this high wind that your body gets pushed and pulled and thumped and bumped as if you were in a scrum of people having an altercation. Invisible bodies pull at your jacket, push you in the back, knock your head sideways. It’s very difficult to even see to overtake because your head is being pulled about and shaken. When you do overtake you’re riding on a tightrope between the vacuum towards the truck, and the deflected wind going over the top and round the front. When you get to pass you hit a wall of wind that you have to physically lean into, like trying to go through a curtain without using your hands. It’s extremely tiring and absolutely no fun at all. But soon it’s all done on autopilot.

With no other distractions, my mind’s curator starts doing his rounds. Looking in the corners. Trying the locked doors. Looking through the keyholes. Trying to resist temptation. It’s like having a huge, red, self destruction button sat next to the mouse on your computer. You don’t want to touch it. But you will. First with one finger, then two, and before long you’ll have your hand resting lightly on it, gently rubbing your fingertips over it, wondering. Then you’ll get an email, press the button and the mail won’t open, and you’ll be desperately trying to pull the button back out. That is the game my curator likes to play when he’s not got any other distractions.

Luckily, as I’m pulling out a fuel station the Russian appears. He’s been messing about and had fallen behind me. So my mind’s curator has to get back to his desk. I’m sure he will have other chances for his mind games before this trip is over.

I’ve decided to pull up 150 miles short of the Russian’s destination tonight. We say our goodbyes and he heads off. He’s a nice, everyday  normal bloke. He likes a laugh. He’s helpful and considerate. He’d make a good friend. I hope I can  travel with him again.

I’m staying at a truck stop. These are my absolute favourite watering holes. I get really excited walking into the cafes. They’re like school dinners to me. If I want a piece of carrot cake with a poached egg and some gravy then nobody cares. I don’t have to sit in a suit at a table with a starched napkin and pay £200 for a small plate of ‘turtle toes and newt nipples bathed in a warm cloud of fish farts’ thanks very much.

After dinner I step outside to take a few pictures. I turn around and see this. Defenders? What are they doing here. But these aren’t Defenders. They’re Defender-sans. Chinese copies. They simply do not give any fucks at all when it comes to plagiarism.

I’m just doing a short hop today for a couple of reasons. I need to do some trip planning and I need to stock up on brave tablets so to Aktobe I go.

This bloke could do with seeing a specialist, in packing light. The tyres must be running at 200psi on this thing. Fuck knows how the roof rack stays on.

Get to Aktobe and there is a Chinese plated Africa Twin there. Looking all shiny and new like it was dropped from a space ship.

Take a quick wander but this place is going to get a 10 on ShitAdvisor. It’s just another blank city in a this blank country.  A soulless collection of concrete, glass, and people that don’t know any better.  If they did, they wouldn’t be here.

I’ve set myself a target to be home. 10 days. About 3500-4000 miles including into and out of Russia. So now I need some new pants.

I wash my T-shirts, socks and pants regularly. I rinse them in the shower most days and occasionally get them laundered but I worry I might be like PigPen and not recognise my own scent. There is a bloke at work that I’m convinced has brown rings in his pants going all the way back to the 1960s. I can tell if he’s working the minute I step out my front door in the morning. And I live 10 miles away. I don’t want to be that bloke. So I buy some military series camouflage ones, just in case I have to ditch the bike and my leathers in Russia and run into the forest without being seen.

When I came back to the hotel last night I had a note from the Africa Twin rider saying he would like to have a chat. The wise words of a friend of mine immediately came to mind. ‘Never ever engage with a lone travelling motorcyclist. They’ve not spoken to anybody for months and it’ll be like walking into a hotel, turning on your phone and connecting to the wi-if for the first time in 3 weeks’. But I did it anyway.

He’s from Shanghai and speaks better English than I do. Shanghai is famously vehemently anti-motorcycle. See that number plate. The code allows him to travel in all but a very small area of the city. Price tag? $30,000

Anyway, talking to him was a very weird experience indeed. It was like speaking to a Chinese reflection of myself. He’s travelled extensively and all of his thoughts mirrored mine exactly. He said the same of mine. It was so odd that this morning as I’m riding I’m wondering if I just imagined him. Did my brain create a Chinese clone and I was just taking to myself? I mean he was smart, eloquent, engaging and well mannered, patient and he didn’t swear once. That’s me to a tee.

Out on the road it’s yet another beautiful sunny morning. I like to think I’m sensitive to the changing light and Kazakhstan mornings and evenings have some of the best. How can light affect my mood so much. Christ knows, but just being in it makes me happy. It looks like most traffic goes north from Aktobe into Russia instead of west. I’m all alone for long periods today. Just me and a purring Ktm thinking of home.

I keep finding myself completely lost in thought. Looking through the window of the door to all the stuff I have to sort out when I get back. It’s been building and building and now there is a massive queue outside like I’ve announced I’m opening a new NHS dentist. But then my brain just puts a sign in the window saying ‘back in 10 days’, pulls down the blind and dumps my consciousness back into the middle of the Kazakhstan wilderness

 A big part of doing this trip is to keep my memories alive. To do a senility check. To make sure my grey matter remembers what matters. Somewhere in my head there is someone with a big box of jigsaw pieces from previous trips. They keep themselves amused by constantly scanning and analysing the vistas. Everywhere has changed, everything is different but every so often I’ll feel a click as they find a match and slide an old piece into whatever scene I’m looking at. I can usually recall what I was doing and who I was with, not all of whom are still alive. Bringing ghosts back to life just for a moment. All the distractions I need to keep my mind out of mischief.
Uralsk, like everywhere else out here has changed massively, but it’s still just a dull collection of people and concrete. I’m really looking forward to going back into Russia tomorrow. To some cities more than 5 minutes old.

I’m still on a hunt for the perfect shave and I’ve got enough stubble to warrant another go. Find a place but it seems to be run by a mob of yoofs. Oh well. Nothing ventured nothing gained. I’m going in.

Hot towel Foam Sharp blade. The second the razor touches my skin I know I’m in trouble. The blade is as blunt as the end of my knob. I’m in proper pain and I’m considering bailing right now. His razor is randomly moving about all over my face like a dog running in the snow. My body has turned on the emergency sprinklers and he’s having to constantly apply more foam as it’s washed away the floods of tears erupting from my eyes. It’s brutal. And it’s shit.

Still. The moral of this story is never let anyone shave you that isn’t old enough to shave themselves. I just hope the Russians will match my passport picture to my half man half skeleton visage tomorrow.