I was pondering why I wasn’t so enamoured by the Khiva fort last night, as i ate some delicious soup while feeding all the meat to the saddest looking cat in the world. Maybe it was a professional beggar though. Before it went out it would do its ‘hit by a car’ makeup, unarrange its hair, perfect its limp. Poor thing. I very nearly bought it a whole kebab.
Anyway, I think it’s because the fort has been over restored, and once you’re inside you’re like a tourist fish in a barrel. I don’t like swimming with the other fish. I usually want to swim in the opposite direction.
Out of Khiva.. what was that… a misfire? Jesus I hope not.. get some fuel and spend the first 2 hours at 30 mph in a fume filled potholed nightmare. I have to leave a big gap between me and the vehicle in front. If I don’t then I don’t see the big holes in time and I spend the next 10 minutes pressing my teeth back in with my tongue. But patience is expensive out here and nobody buys any. Any gap is filled immediately so progress is painful.
After a couple of hours I’m released into a new road across the desert. A 200 mile strip of concrete with barely anything anywhere along it.
For all my bullshit and bluster and nonsense, I do very often get tense and anxious, particularly on sections like this. My body is plugged into the bike like a human diagnostic machine. My knees are used like a stethoscope to monitor The Bitch’s heartbeat. My hands on the bars constantly assessing its reflexes. My throttle hand acutely aware of any change in response to my command. My ears are tuned to the regular music of my chain rattling on the bumps, the exact note of the exhaust, the tap tap tap of the tappets. Little yellow warning lights flash up in my head all the time. What exactly would I do if I broke down here, 100 miles from anywhere?
But I have to stop that train of thought. I have to give it a big red signal otherwise I wouldn’t get on the bike each morning. Sometimes it’s not easy though.
What is easy is the next few hours riding. It’s such a pleasure not to be thrown around like a soft toy in a puppy’s mouth for a change. Just watch the desert roll by out the windows.
After a couple of hours I can see what I know is a bike right out in the distance. Your brain is an amazing thing. How it works that out who knows but when I catch it up it’s a Russian rider. About 30 minutes later I stop at the first place selling Benzine after 130 miles of nothing, and the Russian comes in a few minutes later. His name is Yuri. Lives up near St Petersburg. He’s on a 1997 Transalp and he’s doing the Pamir too. We have a chat and his route is identical to mine. He says he’ll contact me later. Who knows. Be handy to have someone that speaks the local lingo. And I’m obviously keen to talk politics.
Get to Bukara and it’s the same same. A scrappy town with ragged roads and strips of shops selling who knows what to who knows who.
But once you get to the old city and start navigating the labyrinth of tiny old streets then everything changes. Nice botique hotel. A walk in the shadows and boom boom shake the room. Another fuck off mud fort for a start. Luckily I’ve been here before so i know my way about. And near the fort is the place where the eyes want to go. This is the stuff. This is much nicer than Khiva. It’s all spread out and accessible. And it’s a sight to behold for sure.
I sent this pictures to Daren our local tiler. Asked him for a price to do my house the same. He said he’d have to work out a quote. Could take a while. He said he’ll get back to me.. in 2037
I was looking at google maps last night. I have to zoom out to the maximum then scroll the planet to see home. That scares the shit out of me. I’ve done about 5500 miles so far and I’m still heading away for the next week or so. Sometimes it doesn’t do to think about it. I’m in deep though. Very deep.
My neck orange kept me awake too. It wanted to be scratched and petted. It’s obviously an attention seeker. I ignored it and ignored it but it only got worse.
You know that moment when a cat instantly sits down and swings its leg up to flick seven bells of shit out of an itch. That paroxysm of pleasure written all their little smug catty face? Well that was me this morning. Though I probably shouldn’t have used my leg. And I probably shouldn’t have done it at the breakfast table.
As i sat, lost in my postcoital haze, memories came to mind of a very close shave somewhere round here. Another reason for this journey. A last minute entry. I know exactly where to go.
The shop is just a cupboard in the wall. Too small of you’re too tall. I recognise the fella. I was last here 5 years ago. He looks a lot older. I’m sure I look exactly the same.
Sit down. Hot towel. Soap brushed on. He grips my nose to start, but what’s this? The bloke is shaking like a leaf. That’s not good. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had. I’m guessing they don’t include activities like shaving people with cutthroat razors at Parkinson’s treatment clinics do they? Too late now though. He knows he’s shaking. He’s being very slow and deliberate. He deliberately cuts off a lip and both ears before he’s finished. Still, having only one lip will mean my lipstick lasts twice as long, and no ears will make putting my helmet on much easier? WHAT? I SAID IT WILL MAKE PUTTING MY HELMET ON MUCH EASIER.
I’m riding an artery today to Samarkand. I take pictures of lovely things for a few minutes every day, but the reality is 6-8 hours on the bike most of the time. A non stop game of tarmac Tetris. Watching the gaps. Watching the shapes. Predicting the moves.
Now. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it before but my old Pug dog, Ruby, had the good fortune to be born with the most fragrant Fanny in all of doggy land. Other girl dogs would point and whisper when we walked past. The males would patiently line up and wait their turn for a whiff. Sometimes right round the park. I honestly thought about charging.
Anyway, The Bitch seems to have the exact same problem. Every time I look in the mirror there is a car with its nose right up under her tail. Their bonnets bellowing in and out as they breathe in The Bitch’s bouquet. It’s a real fucking nuisance. I’m going to have to add something to her petrol to stop it. Some of that stuff the army used to use to make the soldier’s ardour softer. It’s got to be done.
Samarkand is a big old city. Same as all the others. In terms of architecture it seems anyway. Old is gold. New is poo. I took the camera out for a walk but it just sulked in my pocket for most the time.
Tomorrow I’m staying here. I need to check the bike over again before we head for the main event. The front is all shaking about whenever I hit a bump, and there are going to be a lot of bumps in the road I’m taking.
The Russian influence is getting stronger here too
I’ve been away for nearly a month now. I’ve never spent this long alone before and it’s an odd experience. Going through life, school, work, relationships, holidays, kids, is just really about distraction. Keeping your mind in check. An undistracted mind can easily take over and consume everything. Travelling overland on a bike gives me near 100% distraction for the hours on the road, and with a constant live stream of the unfamiliar when I’m off it. It’s like a 5000 mile line of cocaine. But when i get a gap, i get these odd reality checks. I try taking to myself about it but I’m not always a good listener.
I have very little correspondence with home too. I never have had when I’m away. But that gap is usually filled by my fellow travellers. Mainly Brian. Another distraction (love you Brian) But I don’t have that either this time. My daughter had my first grandchild a week ago as well. Yes, I know, you can email any comment to sheknewIwasgoingawaybeforeshegotpregnant@selfisholdbastard.com. This isn’t a rest day, it’s a day for self council. I’m about half way. I need to get my head down and get on with it. Entering the supportive bubble of a big city is easy. Bursting the bubble and leaving is sometimes not.
Fettle and fuck about with the bike for a while. Make it all sorts of promises if it gets me home safe. Give it a quick cuddle when nobody’s looking. It all helps.
She needs more oil. I’ve given her what I have and she needs more. I’m not seeing any motorcycles round here. Not any at all. Anything with 2 wheels has an electric motor rather than a beating heart. Taking of which, they’ve seriously upped the anti round here with the pavement terrorists. As well as electric scooters they have small electric sit on bikes for hire. Those fucking things come past you at 30 mph while you’re walking with a 5 year old riding and a 2 year old on the back. It’s the future, but maybe it’s really a way of reducing the population.
Anyway, get in a taxi. He understands what I want but he’s no idea where to get any. We seem to go round and round the city in ever increasing circles until we’re out in the countryside looking at bloody sunflowers. It’s not bloody sunflower oil I want mate! Eventually end up at an agricultural dealer who has 3 wheel bikes with trailers. Most of those bloody things are electric here now too. But he has some ‘3 wheel motorcycle oil’. Fuck knows what will happen if I put that in. Will The Bitch grow an extra wheel? I’ve decided it’s for emergencies only
It would be rude while I’m here not to overdose on old tiled buildings so I take a walk down to old town. If I’m keeping score it’s Khiva 6/10, Bukara 8/10, Samarkand ‘You’re taking the piss’.
I tried to contact tiler Daren. I want to upgrade my request to my house, garage and outbuilding in this style. He’s stopped taking my calls.
It’s difficult to describe the scale of these places. They’re fooking mahoosive.
I’ll tell you what though. Even Shania was impressed.
Wandering back from dinner last night and spotted this black shark amongst all the little cheap white fish. I wonder how many ‘have nots’ there have to be out here for this bloke to have a Maybach. The traffic was parted for it courtesy of a new, blacked out Range Rover. It was probably owned by someone who uses 4 fingers to hold there cock when they wee.. and 3 fingers get wet.
Oh.. and can someone please check on Barney the dinosaur. I think he’s been shot and used to make some trophy chairs.