When I awoke this morning all was well. The Russian hadn’t tried to occupy my half off the room. All he had done was to arrange half a dozen tanks facing me from the high ground of the windowsills and wardrobe. Seems fair enough.
We’ve only got 145 miles to do today. I always make the mistake of asking people what the road is like. I don’t know why I do it. ‘Well the first 144.9 is absolutely shit but the last 0.1 is fine’.
But. I do remember this bit. It’s not in the bin. It’s in my favourites. It’s one of the places my brain was showing reruns to convince me to take the harder route. One of the most beautiful places I know. It’s takes some effort to get to, and a lot of the time part of me is saying ‘why the fuck do you get into these situations?’, but then, a thankfully much larger part is saying ‘thank God you do’.
It’s a fucking hard day there is no doubt about it. The Bitch is definitely going to file for assault and battery as soon as we get home, but that machine is just incredible. Big respect to anything that can take such a massive beasting and keep moving.
A few days ago I missed a target for this journey. I hoped to find a priest that previously blessed my bike at a little village across the water from Afghanistan. I phoned him up. Made an appointment. Arraigned a time and place but he never showed up. Probably busy ironing his dress.
The today the ‘Blessing’ light came up on The Bitch’s dashboard. Oh shit. But one of my Angels obviously saw it and arranged an upgrade. Actual Jesus. As I live and breathe.
We overtook a group of 3 mental cyclists struggling in the mountains and stoped a few minutes later for pictures when they came and stopped for a chat. One of them was wearing a head covering with dense beard poking out. I told him he needed a shave. Fact is, he is travelling incognito, but he is actual Jesus. Reborn as a tall German. Who would have thought. He’s been travelling all over and he says he was actually first recognised in Iran from pictures they have of Jesus in their holy books. And then all the Iranians were calling him it all the time.
I asked him if he’d actually considered saving the world now he’s been resurrected but he just said he’d had a think about it, he thinks it’s way beyond saving, and he thinks one of his rivals has hacked the gene pool so he decided to say ‘fuck it’ and ride round the world on a bike instead. But he did deign to bless The Bitch for me.
Started her up, the light’s gone out. Job done.
When we get to the tarmac road my bike is shouting that something is wrong. The panniers have collapsed again, a common occurrence and mainly caused by my monkey mechanics, but a massive shit none the less. The Russian and I take them all off and replace some bolts but one has sheared and we can’t get the head out. Fuckidy tits and arse biscuits, buggery fart flaps and cock wombles.
We’re at Mogarb tonight. A tiny town at the end of the road. It looks like a refuse tip that’s come alive. People have crawled out the rubbish and made what they can in order to survive. But it does have lifeblood fuel. Served by a Nana from plastic bottles.
And it’s the home of The Master. Yep. I couldn’t believe it either. Jesus and The Master on the same day. The hotel is like your nan’s house. Falling apart, never updated, showers with walls thick with unmentionable fluids, and decor a gypsy would baulk at but who cares.
My Russian friend is keen to get this snapped bolt out. He has a word with reception to see if there is anyone that can help. Yes there is. ‘The Master’. Ok then. His assistant arrives on a bike and we follow him to the hideout… I mean squalid yard in the depths of the dump. Do you want to see ‘The Master’ at work? Now I must admit he’s aged quite badly, and changed race, but here he is at work with his sonic screwdriver. Gets the bolt out in no time and goes back to his time lord duties/working in the dirt keeping alive things that really should be dead. Like the NHS really. Still jobs a goodun and it’s fixed. Ready for another day of the same tomorrow 
The last few days I’ve been ignoring a problem. I’m well practiced at that. I could probably run courses on it. I even carry a bucket of sand with me to stick my head in.
I’ve ridden into Kyrgystan maybe 4 or 5 times through different border points and never needed a visa. The uk gov website says you don’t need one. The internet says you don’t need one. But, just by chance, the Australian I was speaking to last Sunday mentioned in passing about a ‘permit’. Apparently you cannot cross this southern border without a permit now. It’s impossible. No permit. No entry. They turf you out the crossing back into nomansland. You need to apply at least 3 days in advance. So I needed to apply Monday. He gave me a random WhatsApp number, I contacted it and the number said he could do it. I rode off into internet/phone silence. Monday evening I get a WhatsApp wanting more info. I reply but don’t get any response. Then I’m off into the boonies. No internet from then on.
Last night I spent an hour in the pitch black following a drunken mumbling elf in a pointed hat who clearly didn’t have a clue where he was going. Wandering around the rubbish dump to hunt down a random pile of rocks where I’d been told to pay $15 for the permit. A young man appears out the dark and takes the money. Says he doesn’t know if my permit is done. The internet has been down for 4 days. He’s says ‘probably’ be ok. Ok then. Thanks mate. Maybe I’ll just use half a bucket of sand then.
As I jump start my old bones out of bed I look at the floor at my pile of dirty, worn, battle scared kit waiting for me. My leathers are so crusted with sweat and dust they’re more like a suit of armour. All the zips on my bags are snagging and struggling. The clothes are filthy, my wash bag needs washing, my boots are humming all sorts of unsavoury tunes and my socks could be dropped by drone in a war zone. But I don’t see them like that at all. They’re all doing their job perfectly. They’re in this adventure with me. They’re scared and beaten but we’re all in it together. I love worn things. I love to close my eyes and run my fingers over my kit. Every nick and tear and mark is a memory. A bookmark into my in-brain entertainment system that can start a rerun in my head and take me to my happy places.
So. Head in sand. Off we go again. Head out, wave goodbye to Stig (of the dump) and track north.
This part of the route is, yet again, a montage of scenic masterpieces. It’s like wandering through the warehouse of ‘Mountains R Us’. It’s just bloody incredible. The road is tarmac and decent enough at first to let your eyes loose for a few seconds and breathe it all in. Deep deep breaths.
And then we get an even bigger high. Up to about 4600m. The sky is clear, the light is right, what a day to be alive.
Had enough of mountains. How about the bluest lake you’ve ever seen. Lake Karakul. Looks too blue to be true. Amazing.. again.
And just when you think you’ve seen everything, you come across a couple of Italians taking their dog for a very very very long walk.
The road predictably turns to absolute rat shit about 20km from the Tajikistan border but we climb again towards the roof of the world and touch the clouds.
I’m busting for a piss so I walk towards the edge but a guard shouts to use the ‘toilet’. I know that won’t be good, especially up here. It’s just 2 planks of wood resting precariously about a foot above a pyramid of stinking, warm fly food. As I look down to pee my sunglasses fall off and I just manage to catch them in a full on ninja swipe. If they go down, even if I can reach out and pull them out, even if they’re the most expensive sunglasses in the world, then they’re dead to me
Out of Tajikistan and 20km of nomansland. And certainly noroadbuildermansland. Large sections are a proper full on assault course, but a spectacularly beautiful assault course none the less.
Ok. Time to get out the bucket. We’re at the border. And just to make me even more apprehensive there is a Russian standing outside the fence that has been stood there 2 days already because he didn’t know he needed a permit. There is absolutely nothing there. No support. No food. No water. Nothing.
I stick my head in the bucket and ask the Russian to lead me into the compound, feeling the condemned man walking to the gallows. I’m waiting for the trapdoor to open. Waiting .. waiting .. there are footsteps.. and a tap on the shoulder and a very great sigh of relief. The permit has come through and I’m in. I was never really worried at all
So welcome to Kyrgystan. The weather is coming in and the wind is blowing sand and gravel across the road in clouds. But because he’s Russian my mate says he’s going to try and ride to Mount Lenin base camp about 30 miles away and camp. Of course he is. He’s probably going to spend the night half naked, up to his tits in snow, full of vodka singing Patrioticheskaya Pesnya.
It’s getting late so I head north 3 hours to Osh for a warm bed and proper food. I’ve forgotten what that feels like.
Hello old friend. I’ve missed you.