I went to bed with the words of the Australian ringing in my ears. ‘Leave by 4:30’. Well that ringing didn’t transfer to my alarm. Fuck that! I’m not riding that road in the dark. I’d rather wait at some roadworks than wait in the morgue.
The light was just beginning to come as I gingerly put my front tyre on the sandy road and headed off about 5:30. Slowly does it. The road has a few brand new sections of about 2/3km each but the rest is still absolutely completely and utterly trashed. It’s worse than the Uzbek border road. Still, the scenery is ok.
I phoned up one of the Chinese contractors last night for a chat. I asked him to arrange a perfect piece of road where the sun would rise in a huge yellow ball and illuminate throw sharp rays of light across the water. Looks like I owe him one.
It’s still early and I’m clearly riding through some of the road works but I’m not stopping until I’m forced too. Some of the riding is seriously massively shit. Lots of steep cuts and diversions, sharp rocks, fine sand, mud. But mostly it’s the roughness of the road. It’s a proper bastard.
As I rode I ask myself, as I hit another hole and my balls hit my boots, would I rather have the rough or the smooth. And surprisingly I think I’d go for the smooth. It’s all well and good smashing the bike to bits and feeling like a riding God but I’m over 6000 miles from home and I need this machine to keep itself together and get me there. And the smooth would allow me to really look at all this incredible scenery instead of concentrating 300% on the road.
I keep dodging and riding past working trucks and equipment. One fucker turned on his bloody water hoses on as I was crawling past and I was left struggling up a muddy wet hill. Wanker.
Anyway. Eventually I was stopped. It was 7:30. The little bloke said it opens at 11:30 for an hour. But cyclists kept coming up and being let through. So eventually I convinced him to let me try too. I won’t do that again! Dodging fucking great loaders with 10 tonne rocks in their buckets in clouds of dust. I think I lost a few angels in those few minutes
The miles are crawling down. I’ve got 150 to do and I’ve done 45 by 12. Honestly. If I had a ‘beam me up Scottie’ button I’d have been bashing that thing with a hammer.
Then I hear a funny noise. I really don’t find funny noises funny. The panniers have collapsed again, and the tyre is being cut. I can’t fix it here so lash it all up and add it to my ever growing list of worries.
When I finally make it to the hotel I’m completely fucked. I’m way too old for this shit. My legs are shaking and I’m leaning to the right for some reason. Still, I guess I always have really. But I’m alive
I attend to The Bitch. Replace some bolts check her for bruises. The bracket on the auxiliary tank has cut into the edge of the tyre. You can see the clean black line round the edge. And taken from behind, as indeed is the Bitch’s preference, you can see the blocks on the left have been cut. Still, it’s only got to last another 5/6000 miles
And the road is so rough it has also destroyed my socket handle .. which is convenient.
The next few days. More the same. Pray for me
Lots of bad dreams last night. I was glad to open my eyes and escape them. I can’t remember anything much about this next section. I think it’s called the Wakam corridor. Another ribbon laid down along the river between Tajikistan and Afghanistan. But first breakfast, or the terrace. Best coffee I’ve had for ages. The place is basic but clean and the bloke is very helpful. TBH I’d book it again for the coffee alone.
It’s very unlike me to bin a memory. In my whole life I’ve never binned enough to need it emptied. So it must have been bad. That’s my conclusion as I wander about making excuses not to go. To delay the terror and pain.
But when I finally get going I’m wondering what I was worried about. It’s a beautiful little strip of road. And it’s even smooth enough to keep all my unsecured body parts wothin a few inches of their designed location. I can watch across the river and see Afghan kids running about, people tending animals and working in the fields. It’s like an EYEMax super experience.
And it goes on and on and on. A beautiful wonderful ride through fields and small villages with the mountains keeping watch.
We get to some loose corrugated road and The Bitch asks me if I want to dance. I’m a shit dancer but if it keeps her happy I’m willing to try. Whenever we hit the corrugations I open the throttle and skim across the top with The Bitch dancing underneath me. I let he find her own rhythm, hold the bars lightly and let her lead.
The corrugations are making the bracket rub on the tyre and I have to do something. I’m going to have to twat it with a rock. But not just any old rock. Twatting rocks are graded according to the application. Too small and it’s about as effective as hitting a nail with your tongue. Too big and it’s like squashing an ant with a meteorite. No. There is a scientific calculation.
Enjoyment of twatting (100) times level of frustration (3) minus likelihood of serious and irreparable damage (150) minus ‘middle of bum fuck nowhere’ chance of recovery (144.6). So I need a 5.4 grade rock. Now as luck would have it I appear to have stopped at one of the world’s largest rock shops.
After an hour or two I find a 5.4, give the bracket a twatting, and it makes fuck all difference
Ah well. I’ll just have to forget about it and enjoy the ride.
I’ve got 40 miles to go. Jesus, I’ll be there in no time. What am I going to do all afternoon. Maybe go for a swim, or a sauna. Or, maybe not.
I come to a section of deep gravel and corrugations. I know the theory. Get off the bike. Call recovery. And get in a fuck off great big 4×4. But given I don’t have that option I have to get on my knees and crawl. This is why I binned this memory. 40 miles of gravel. I’m crawling along and the bike is overheating. I can maybe do 5 miles and I have to stop because it’s litterally boiling. I can hear it bubbling like a kettle. Good job I’ve got a good book with me. I’m sat reading and another bike comes the other way. First I’ve seen for days. A French bloke. Says he saw some others on Ktm’s with the exact same problem. 40 miles. 4 hours and a seriously strained sphincter.
Get to the 1 horse village where fuel is sold out the can. A Russian bloke turns up on a bike swearing about the road too. I’ve just got the last room at the home stay. ‘You can share?’ ‘Err ..Ok’. So tonight I’m sleeping with the enemy.
There is absolutely nothing to do here. It’s 3 houses, a shop, a few dogs and 3 big 4×4 Pamir taxis that ferry tourists from Osh to Dushanbe. So I go to the shop with the russian and play ‘guess something they don’t sell’. We had to stop playing after 6 hours and still hadn’t guessed.