Encore une fois

[monkeyboy]

Perhaps the biggest change I’ve seen across my journey so far in Turkey, Georgia, Russia and out here are the coffee shops. They are absolutely every bloody where. I’d say they are almost a plague. Think Turkish Barbers. So I tried one before I left but as seems to be common everywhere, they take this Bean to Cup thing literally. Literally one bean to one cup. All you get is beige milk. I’m not a fan of beige, unless it’s a 1970s Austin Princess.

I go and use my pocket money to fill up the bike. 21.5 litres. £6.54 It’s more per litre in than it is per gallon here.

Out on the road it’s lots and lots more of this

Stop for a bit of this

Take a look off a bridge. Anything this way? Nope?

What about the other way? Nope. Kazakhstan is largely featureless. Like Italy it doesn’t have anything that grows above 2” 6’.

Remember the transparent aluminium from Star Trek? Well here it is. I wondered why Captain James T Kirk was here was graffiti’d on the wall outside

The road today is mostly pretty good but for a while it gets very very bumpy so I stand up on the pegs to help the suspension. Let my legs take the hits. Get your timing wrong though and your bollocks fly down and bash into your ankles. A few hours of that and my balls look like a couple of bruised apricots in a pair of old carrier bags.

And still more nothing. But I really like nothing. Sometimes there’s nothing better.

Today’s town is a tiny dot on the map called Beyneu. It’s where the fun begins. It’s all sandy streets and chatting nanas. It’s all big skies and edge of the desert air. It’s cheap hotels with furniture from a skip. It’s my kind of town.

Muscle memory is an amazing thing. My muscles were recalling their memories of the last time I rode this section to Uzbekistan. It’s the section I fear most and I’m on my own this time. They’re refusing to take me to the bike. They’re like reluctant toddlers being taken to the dentist. I have to drag them kicking and screaming into the cool morning light.

It’s a really very beautiful morning. Mother Nature has turned the light to ‘soft’ and it’s draped all over the scrubby little buildings, the dilapidated train carriages, the old and beaten machinery. Heating it up gently for yet another days work.

Go to fuel up. This section is 320 miles with no fuel stations and almost nothing except for a border 80km in. It’s a rough scratch across a desert. It’s the worst road I know anywhere. Full the tank, the auxiliary tank and my fuel container. If I could swallow and regurgitate some fuel I’d do that too.

80km to the border is absolutely perfect. New road. Cool and calm. Easy riding. This border should be open 24/7… but it looks like it’s 7/24. The gate is shut, bolted, and unmanned. Google says this next section of 270 miles is 10 hours. It’s 8:30 already. I can really do without a delay. So we wait.

These borders remind me of refugee camps. All sorts of people seeimigly carrying all their worldly possessions shuffling along in the dirt and dust to cross. Fuck only knows where they’re going. Their will be old cars picking them up on the other side I guess. They’re all funnelled through a tiny gate like sausage meat. People can go through but no vehicles.

One hour. Two hours. Now im starting to get really agitated. Driving in the dark out here is a game of chance. After 3 hours I’m seriously considering ram raiding the gate and just letting the Ktm scream her way through with a manic laugh and a single finger in the air.

But just in time the bolt is drawn back and we’re off. Passport, done. I’m about to leave and an inspector comes to check the luggage. He grabs a guard, tears off a little strip of paper and I’m taken to customs. Another seagull feeding frenzy window. The guard pushes me in at the front and I can feel myself being stabbed in the back by dozens of angry eyes. The guard has accidentally torn my paper in two. But it gets stamped and proceeded anyway. 4 hours after arriving I’m headed for the exit. You have to hand over the piece of paper to show all the processing is complete. That’s ‘piece’ rather than ‘pieces’. He won’t let me leave. He wants me to go back and do it all again. Well that’s a hard NO I’m afraid mate. My patience is well into the red by now. There is a fight going on in my brain where someone is trying to grab the volume button and turn it right up. I just sit there and he gets google translate out.

‘Why did you tear the ticket?’

‘Because I really wanted to waste my life having an altercation with a 10 year old with a gun at a border crossing. I thought it would be a learning experience’.

Eventually he decides it’s all too difficult, and he’s getting daggers from the drivers behind me so he lets me through. Straight into another queue to the Uzbekistan border.

My leathers are so sweaty and so full of dirt that they have become a husk. I can relax all my body and still stand upright in them. I dare not fall asleep though. I might wake up as a skinny 6”4’ butterfly. That would be bad. Though I do fancy a go with a huge proboscis.

Another hour or so and I’m through. This is where humanity ends for the next 200 miles.

Out we go onto the road. This road is just indescribable. It’s totally destroyed. It’s very dangerous and the only sensible way to drive it is like the trucks do. They crawl along at 20mph and use their height to spot every hole then weave through the madness like drunk blindfolded 12 year olds.

Or drive at 50 and hope you skip over to the top of all the nastiness. That seems to be working for a while. It does sound like I’m driving in a car through a riot though. Big bangs and whomps, chains clattering, noises of money leaving my wallet. That’s all working well until I hit a massive yomp and I hear something really bad.

This could be better. I’m 200 miles from anywhere and my panniers have decided to shear some bolts, then collapse onto my auxiliary fuel tank, which has then rubbed on the tyre, which has then bent a mounting and split the tank pissing all the fuel out. That’s what’s known as an unfortunate series of events. Or a complete clusterfuck.

The panniers are now flipping about like a geriatric’s knockers and things have become a bit bent too.

Get the tools out. I carry some spare bolts and straps and I manage to use the big tyre levers to ‘persuade’ the frames into shape. Don’t know about the fuel tank though. That’s going to have to wait.

Now it’s 4:30 and I’m 200 miles out. My muscles are twitching from all the riding on the pegs. I’m not even half way. But I have to slow down.

The next few hours are just purgatory. Pure and utter purgatory. I’M SWEARING AND SWEARING UNTIL MY THROAT IS SORE BUT I STILL


SWEAR SOME MORE UNTIL ITS RAW” AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH I FUCKING HATE THIS FUCKING BLOODY SHITTY C&@T OF A ROAD”

After about 100 miles of this shit there is a dilapidated shack/Cafe where you can lie down for a while, listen to whale music and put £3000 in a swear jar. I do love these places. In the middle of absolutely nowhere. They really offer nothing except a collection point where humans can just look at each other and get solace that we’re all in it together

Another few hours, and about 170 miles after leaving the border, the road suddenly turns from zero to 7. My eyes that have become swollen and huge can now shrink and have time off pothole spotting for a while, and the bike can use its forgotten top three gears. Just in time too. The sun held in the sky as long as it possibly could but now it falls over the horizon with a click and we’re into the dark for the last 90 miles.

I don’t want to think about those miles. Scary things going under the wheels. The roads are still really shit in places and the bangs and pings from the wheels confirm they’re still suffering.

The bike says 10 miles fuel. The GPS says 18. I’m crawling along in the dark. Counting down the inches.

I can see the hotel. I’ve been here before. I coast into the car park about 10, the bike feels exactly like I do. It’s totally exhausted. But what a bike that is. Big Respect to The Bitch. That was a day from hell. I’ll have a day off and look at her scars tomorrow. But fuck what a machine that is.

Now. Time for the white stuff. If you’re a fan like me, I can take you to a dairy drugs den in any city I’ve ever been to. I know them all. And this is a good one. They’ve got the hard stuff. 6% cream. Not for girls…

Today’s a down day. Time for licking wounds and listening to muscles shouting I TOLD YOU SO!

Checked The Bitch over and tightened more loose bolts. The windscreen was only as tight as an old blokes teeth too. She seems OK but I suspect she’s just holding her stomach in and pretending she’s still young.

Went to get some fuel. Almost the entire transport network here runs on LPG. Benzine is rare and expensive. I fill up the tank, and my spare fuel can, then go to ‘test’ the auxiliary tank to see if the elves fixed it overnight. Turns out the elves couldn’t get a visa I pissed out fuel over the forecourt.. and the next 5 miles up the road.

Nukus has a bit of a North Korea vibe to me. Streets and streets of identical buildings. Decaying and abandoned parks and attractions. Fuck knows what anyone does here for entertainment.

‘What shall we do this weekend kids? Why don’t we go out and count the leaves on a tree? That would be fun!’

‘Ahh dad, we did that the last 10 weekends in a row’

‘Ahhh.. but this weekend we will pick another tree’

‘Whoop whoop. Let’s go’

Thank your lucky stars that your soul wasn’t selected to inhabit a manifestation here. A couple of days is manageable. Being here for birth, marriage and death is unthinkable.

This place reminds me of North Korea. Streets and streets of identical buildings and identical cars. 99% of the vehicles are white Chevrolets, obviously conducive to cheap LPG conversion.

And the potholes are more common than sexual deviants at the BBC.

Still. I know there is wondrous beauty just beyond the horizon. The yin to this yang.

I’m on a mission today. I’m an errand boy. My wife saw something on the internet a little while ago that she wants a piece of. And who am I to refuse.

I have to backtrack a few hours and take a little spur route out into the desert. I gulp a massive gob full of gasoline and head back out. I should just about be able to get there and back.

I’m riding like Miss Daisy. Max 50 and I’m still twatting pot holes and cuts. Sometimes there is just a gap in the road.. probably 30cm wide.. 10 cm deep.. all the way across the road. Exactly WTF is that about? The bike doesn’t feel quite right either.

Get to the fork to the desert and it’s only going to get worse. I need a drink. Sometimes I stop at the nicest place I see. Sometimes I stop at the worst place I see. And this time I stop at the only place I see. It has a lovely outside lounge area though. I can see this with a nice home cinema.. low lights .. rats

Get through the little town and maybe 10 miles into the desert and something is definitely not right. The bike is all over the place. Stop for a look at the front tyre is almost flat . That’s nice. Never mind, I’ll just get the pump out and sort that out. Or maybe not

That’s awkward. Pass me the swear jar will you please? I need to make a FUCKING BLOODY WANKY TOSSING SHITTY FUCKING COCK BLEEDING CONTRIBUTION. Ahhh. That’s better.

I truly believe I travel with a strip of angels on each shoulder, and at times like this I seem to be able to rip one off and cash it in for some help. And this time I think I pulled a joker. Before I left, I ran into an old American mate of mine that had been travelling in Europe. He randomly gave me a puncture repair kit he had a duplicate of, and in that were some CO2 canisters. So one of those goes into the wheel. It’s still about as firm as a 10 year old breast enhancement but it will do until I can get it pumped up… which randomly happens about 2 miles later.

I come across a portacabin on the side of the road and there is a car there having a tyre inflated. The people working inside the portacabin have a generator and an air compressor for their tools. I give them about the same as I give Sainsbury’s and its smiles all round. One angel down.

I very slowly follow the ribbon of road. The wind is up and there is sand in the air. When I get to my bed it’s an absolute shitter. Falling apart. Dark and dingy with a nana asleep on a bed behind the desk. I love these places.

Local shop looks like the stockroom for The Generation Game. Rubber gloves. Some stationary. Cuddly toy. A woman’s hat…

But that’s not why I’m here. I’m here for the ghost ships. These are the ships that used to ply the Aral Sea until the Russians came in and tried to use it for irrigation, deleting most of the sea and leaving the fishing ships high and dry. This is what my wife saw. This is what she wants a piece of. And what the lady wants ..

There is even a lighthouse, now cafe (2 people asleep next to a dozen bottles of water) where I met a friendly fraulein that gave my helmet some much needed attention

 

[Hustler]

For some unknown reason this is the first trip report of yours that I've come across.
Quite excellent.
Informative, witty and very good snaps to go with it as well.
What camera do you use please ?
Thanks very much for your efforts, most appreciated.

 

[monkeyboy]

For some unknown reason this is the first trip report of yours that I've come across.
Quite excellent.
Informative, witty and very good snaps to go with it as well.
What camera do you use please ?
Thanks very much for your efforts, most appreciated.

My pleasure

By far the majority of the pictures are taken on my IPhone 14. I also have a Sony RX1 I occasionally use, but not often. I have Lightroom on the phone and just mess about with them on there.

TBH I’m not a fan of perfect pictures. They seem more natural and attractive to me If they’re not 100% perfect. Like women

 

[ATT]

For some unknown reason this is the first trip report of yours that I've come across.
Quite excellent.
Informative, witty and very good snaps to go with it as well.
What camera do you use please ?
Thanks very much for your efforts, most appreciated.

It is refreshingly non woke....Real, spit and sawdust, no appeasing the woketards...Best on the site if the truth be known.
Milk is the best thing to drink in a hot climate, better than water and so much better than beer, it hydrates you so much more than anything else and a high fat content feeds your brain, he has it cracked in every way.

Apologies monkeyboy, it is not my intention to speak of you as though you are not here, on your thread....It is merely that you have achieved that elevated status...A rare acomplishment on such a site as this.

 

[monkeyboy]

It is refreshingly non woke....Real, spit and sawdust, no appeasing the woketards...Best on the site if the truth be known.
Milk is the best thing to drink in a hot climate, better than water and so much better than beer, it hydrates you so much more than anything else and a high fat content feeds your brain, he has it cracked in every way.

Apologies monkeyboy, it is not my intention to speak of you as though you are not here, on your thread....It is merely that you have achieved that elevated status...A rare acomplishment on such a site as this.

Elevated status. Not sure about that mate But thanks anyway.

I had the good fortune to be born way before woke and PC became mandatory human fitment

 

[Kitsilano]

@monkeyboy
I tripped across your thread this morning and feel like I've stumped into the Tardis Of Life..... Superb narrative, stunning photos (esp. B&W of older men)... And a reminder that politics, religion and nationality aside when you are out on the road like this in a world of the unknown, we are all the 'Children of a Common Mother'.
Stay safe.
Travel well.

 

[jasp]

I just love your write ups, an element of Hunter S Thompson only much more amusing and the photos add pure atmosphere. My swear box has certainly overflowed a couple of times on sole trips and the memory takes me back to forgotten placesand how we get through. Thank you for the time taken to write and post and has been said already, please write a book!

 

[monkeyboy]

I wasn’t looking forward to the ride back out so I got up early to leave. Had to wake the nana from her bed behind reception. I used my built in fart alarm. She looked like she had been raised from a dream about the Phantom Raspberry Blower. She wobbled to the door, unlocked it and let me back onto the tarmac minefield.

It’s fair to say that Uzbekistan has some of the worst roads outside Africa I reckon. They’re almost all like this.. or worse.

I go back to the hotel in Nukus to ask for some help. Where can I get a pump please? And where can I get coffee? At this moment coffee is far more important. Walk in.. cakes ahoy! I choose a selection of 15 with some coffee but then spot a menu on the side. I’m not expecting to be able to read it but something is telling me to look closer. ‘English Breakfast’. What? HOLD THE CAKES!! I REPEAT. HOLD THE CAKES

I can’t remember the last time I looked at food with anything other than survival instinct. I’ve been picking and eating very little because my eyes aren’t interested. But now…

What the fuck is this? My eyes are watering. Something is pouring out of them and running down my face. It’s not tears though. This has only happed a few times before in my life. It’s true though. I’m having a full on eyegasm. I think I even let out a little moan.

I scoff the lot like a hungry dog along with 2 milky coffees. Fuck I could stay here all day.. week..

Next it’s the pump. Back to the little place I bought some bolts at the other day. I show him a picture of what I want but he just smiles.. well never mind. As all gentleman know full well, in the absence of any alternative, in a moment of need, there is only one thing to do. Go manual.

It even fits perfectly in the space my underpacking has left in the panniers. Result.

I’m going to Khiva. It’s only 100 miles from here. Piece of piss. Unless you have. Zumo XT ‘Satan edition’ like I do. You’re happily tottering along in a 1000mph crosswind when Satan says ‘turn right’. ‘Right?’ ‘You heard me you meaningless pittyful soul. Right. NOW!!’ Why are we slaves to these things. We entrust our lives to these machines that will risk your life and limb to save you 2.5 seconds over 50 miles. But anyway, I turn right. Right into a 20 miles of extreme cross country FIA rally stage. Which is nice.

Get to Khiva. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. FUCKING GREAT MUD FORTRESS. I’m staying inside the walls. I can’t get in with the bike so I walk in to find the hotel, then the manager gets on his pushbike, follows me to mine, then escorts me through.

Now, I’m not saying I’m not happy, because it’s sunny and warm and I’m wandering around an old fort but…

Maybe I’m channeling my inner Shania Twain. Maybe it’s because of the leopard print leathers I chose for this trip. Maybe it’s the long leather bed boots..

‘Oh ok, so you’re an ancient mud walled city with 8-10m high and 5-6m thick walls and a mosque dating back to the 10th century’

‘That don’t impress me much’

It’s all a bit ersatz for me. A bit Disney’ In all honesty I’m almost impossible to excite nowadays. You could get a young Britney Spears, put her in Pamela Anderson’s red swimsuit, hose her down and give her a road hammer set to 11 and you’d still probably only register a ‘perky’ on my pinkyometer.

But it’s impressive nonetheless.

I used AI to recreate the Britney/Pamela/road hammer scenario and I’ve run it 5810 times so far. The pinkyometer blew up some time ago. So… maybe I was wrong

Yesterday I got bitten on the neck as I was riding along. I don’t know what it was but it was fucking well armed. I think was like a tiny tiny Apache helicopter. It strafed me and I was immediately getting pain down into the top of my shoulder. This morning I have a huge lump. It looks like my ear has swallowed an orange

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 [email protected]. 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

I’m really tempted to put some of this oil in The Bitch to see what happens. I mean it has all the right things on it. But that doesn’t always guarantee the contents does it. I mean the omission of a single word can change everything. If I write MASSIVE on the front of my pants it doesn’t magically morph my maggot into a monster does it.

And for those about to get into their solicitor and prosecute me under the trade descriptions act, I’ve since qualified my sausage signage with the word ‘DISAPPOINTMENT! !’. I even had a very nice young lady come round from the council. She read the sign then carefully unwrapped and inspected the contents before agreeing that in her opinion, the banner did in fact describe the contents perfectly

But that was where the disappointment ended for today. The Uzbek border was a 20 minute breeze and the Tajik one took about the same though it helps if you’ve been there before. The only thing that keeps worrying me these borders is the way they look at me, then look back in the queue for other bikes. Then they say ‘один?’ Alone? And I’m left wondering if they mean ‘are you brave or stupid?’, or, ‘ok I’ll just phone my brothers and tell them to wait up the road with their Ak-47s and some rubber gloves’.

Anyway, as is often the case, you cross the border and everything suddenly changes. If there weren’t any people in Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan there would be no reason to go. At heart they are flat featureless deserts, but Tajikistan had the forethought to grab all the scenery and lasso their border round it. What’s this I see? Mountains? Fuck yea.

Getting closer..

And Closer ..

The scale is getting more and more outstanding as we go. The road has to bend and buckle to the will of the mountains. They’re trying to build a new road but at the moment you’re on the original. Oh well

At the very top you have to go through a tunnel. The Anzob Tunnel. Affectionately known as ‘The Tunnel of Death’. I forgot about this tunnel until I was about half way through, and half dead. It’s very claustrophobic, 2 way, 5km long, unventilated and largely unlit. It’s also on a slope so the old trucks chuff out clouds of blue smoke and scream like tortured demons as they go. It’s hell on wheels. You can’t see. Your eyes and throat sting and your ears are confused by all the noise and echos. But as the light slowly comes towards you and pops you out, then you get your prize.

Fuck sake. This place is absolutely incredible. I’d forgotten just how beautiful this section is. I’m properly in awe. I’m already planning my next visit. Wanna come. Go on. You know you do.

Get to Dushanbe and it’s just another big boring city. Standard buildings. Standard shops. These bloody ‘Bang Your Dog’.. ‘Bury Your Dad’.. ‘Build Your Dreams’ Chinese taxis absolutely everywhere too.

Go out for some dinner at a place that has slop pots to choose from. “A bowl of those stuffed lungs from a very tiny cadaver please, I’m sure they’ll be fine”

And you know what, they were bloody delicious.

I don’t like it here particularly, but that’s not the point. The man made stuff, I can take it or leave it. But I know Mother Nature made a real effort not far from here and that’s where I’m aiming.

After I’ve spent the night in my converted ballroom

 

[monkeyboy]

After dinner last night I was chatting to the owner of this bike.

Now normally I avoid people like this like the plague. They’re almost invariably insufferable knobs. The bike is covered in more stickers than a Tesco pork pie sitting on the ‘reduced’ shelf at 11pm on a Saturday night. “I went to Ky”.. “BEEN THERE. 15 TIMES ACTUALLY. GOING AGAIN NEXT WEEK”.. “I really liked T” “WELL I LIVED THERE FOR 5 YEARS AND FATHERED 12 CHILDREN. ONE IS NOW THE PRIME MINISTER”. No. They’re not for me but in this case maybe I just have to acknowledge the presence of a superior traveler. I’m certainly not going to get into a willy waving competition with him. Not after my one star sausage rating from the local council.

This bloke is an Australian. From Sydney. Though he is a Malaysian resident and has a Malay wife who travels with him. He’s going into Afghanistan today then into Pakistan then India and Nepal to fly the bike somewhere. He’s been travelling for 4 years. He was good to talk to. He listened. He asked. He answered. Good bloke. But he gave me some bad news about the Pamir.

It seems the Chinese delivered the Tajiks a massive roll of ready made road that they are busy laying over sections of the beautiful, rough, challenging Pamir highway. The Chinese are obviously famous for respecting these cultural icons and the will of the locals so they’re busy destroying large sections of what was one of the most beautiful roads to ride. The top, high sections are currently safe but it will come you can be sure. If you want to do it. Do it now. It might already be too late.

Get out the city and into the hills. Roads are perfect. Scenery is ‘acceptable’

And without her asking, I even let The Bitch take a look.

Every so often there’s a small town, always with at least 99% of the population trying to cross from one side to the other. The other 1% taking it in turns to back out in front of me or squeeze me into oncoming traffic. I enjoy the challenge but I know one mistake and I’m fucked.

Then someone falls over in the World Scenery office and knocks the spectaculometer to 15.. possibly even 20. It’s just fucking bananas. The scale is off the scale. You can just see some roads where it winds down into the valley below. I’ve got birds of prey playing on the thermals, daring themselves like small jets, suddenly appearing from below my sight line and soaring up while screaming and laughing to themselves. It’s a truly incredible, unforgettable experience.

Eventually I come to a barrier across the road. We’re near the Afghan border now and you need an extra stamp on your visa to get access. I’ll get checked regularly now. And I’m in. A few miles later and here we are. I feel like driving over to see if they would like to sign my helmet or put a bullet through it. Apparently you can get a visa on the border at the moment but I’ve just run clean out of brave tablets. My bad.

So here was have it. Afghanistan on one side of the river and Tajikistan on the otter. Lots of soldiers marching about on this side though which is new. And this is where the Chinese have replaced the old narrow rough worn road with a brand spanking new one.. so I really should spank it shouldn’t I. What a rediculous ride that is. I’m hammering along a silky twisty river road and watching Afghanistan pass by my right shoulder. I watch some Afghans on small bikes riding in the dust just a stones throw away. What must they be thinking?

Sometimes I ask myself if this is real. Sometimes I reach for the back of my head to see if I’m in the matrix. Sometimes it dawns on me just what an outrageously lucky old twat I am.

When I get to Kalaikum I deliberately choose to punish myself by staying in a shitty hostel where all the flies hang out. It looks like there is very little business happening. No other bikes at all

And from ballroom to not much ball room tonight

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 middle 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 angles 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 to old for this shit. My legs are shaking and I’m leaning to the right for some reason. Stil, I guess I always have reallyBut 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 aldo 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 Walam 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 ans small villages with the mountains keeping watch.

We get to some loose corregated 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 corregations 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 run 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 likely hood of serious and irreparable damage (150) minus ‘middle of bum fuck nowhere’ likelihood 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 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 corregations. I know the theory. Get off the bike. Call recovery. And get in a fuck off great big 4x4. 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 o 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 4x4 Pamir taxis that ferry tourists from Osh to Dushanbe. So I go to the shop with me and play ‘guess something they don’t sell’. We had to stop playing after 6 hours and still hadn’t guessed.

 

[Doc]

How long are you traveling for ?

 

[monkeyboy]

How long are you traveling for ?

I got back last week. I was away about 8 weeks this trip.

 

[Doc]

A

I got back last week. I was away about 8 weeks this trip.

Nice one

 

[2 wheel humvee]

I’ll never see these places with my own eyes so thanks for sharing them through yours

 

[Flintlock]

Brilliant! - Great read & photos.
Thank you.

 

[monkeyboy]

I’ll never see these places with my own eyes so thanks for sharing them through yours

Never say never

If I ever won the lottery then nothing would give me more pleasure than gathering some riders and just taking them to some of these places at my expense. I get so much pleasure watching people see and experience these places. It’s not all sunshine and roses obviously but you forget that when you get back.

We all love to travel and we all have our own memories to make us smile on a rainy day. I know how lucky I am to do this believe me. I really don’t think anything beats travelling overland.

 

[Smartbazza]

Never say never

If I ever won the lottery then nothing would give me more pleasure than gathering some riders and just taking them to some of these places at my expense. I get so much pleasure watching people see and experience these places. It’s not all sunshine and roses obviously but you forget that when you get back.

We all love to travel and we all have our own memories to make us smile on a rainy day. I know how lucky I am to do this believe me. I really don’t think anything beats travelling overland.

Really enjoyed your writing. The photos are cracking, love all the people pics.

Barry

 

[monkeyboy]

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 Botch 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 swalid 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 nomandsland. 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 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

When I wake up this morning and sit up, the pillow comes with me. My beard has Velcro’d itself to my headrest in the night. It’s now as long as my, almost nonexistent, hair and it’s difficult to work out which way up to put my head on in the morning. I need to get that sorted today.

But first I need to attend to The Bitch. She is due a blood transfusion and I know just the place. Zorro’s. Owned by a Swiss bloke, obviously. They rent bikes and also space and facilities for you to do things like change the oil. Or in The Bitch’s case, conduct an enema.

Get the tools out and it seems the rough roads have triggered the can of tyre sealant in the panniers. It hasn’t even sealed the holes in my tool bag. Fuck load of use that would have been then

Anyway, I buy her the most expensive oil they have. Fully synthetic Motul 10/40. She more than deserves it. Adjust the chain a fraction, tighten some bolts and she’s ready for another 5000 miles back to her bed.. hopefully.

Fire her up, ride her back to the hotel and she’s purring away like the Cadburys Bunny… if she were a kitten

Get out to find a beard doctor. But first my lips. They’re buggered. Chapped, sunburned and bone dry like I’ve been kissing The Bitch’s red hot engine goodnight. Walk into a chemist, point at my lips, and Katie Perry hands me a strawberry chapstick with a wink. She’s gone off cherry apparently.

Find a barber but they don’t wet shave. First world problems. So he uses a chainsaw instead. Whatever works.

Descend into the dark world of the have nots. Where people sit on a pavement all day everyday selling the same thing as the people either side of them until they die, whereupon their body is removed and the next generation takes over.

Five minutes walk and I’m in a cafe with the haves. Latte, warm mini quiche and a chocolate tartlet (I do love a tartlet). ‘How much?’ ‘£3 please’. ‘I beg your pardon?’ Ridiculous. You get so used to big numbers nowadays it’s often quite shocking.

I went back to the market to find something to secure my screen. I really wanted some ‘fat bird knicker elastic’ but all they could offer was something with the tension of a Thai tart’s tickle tackle. Markets always make my camera happy though

The Bitch knows it’s time to head towards home now. She’s caught the scent and she wants to run. If you habitually walk out and leave immediately after the climax then it’s been nice having you along for the ride. I appreciate your eyes making writing this fantasy/fact hybrid worthwhile. If you’re going to stick around as I descend from this euphoric high and back to reality then you’re more than welcome to stay and (hopefully) watch the miles roll by. I’d be very happy to have you along. Who knows, it might even be fun

 

[Flintlock]

Your version of swearing cracks me up lol.
Such a great read & the photos are excellent.

 

[monkeyboy]

I point the little motorcycle on my satnav north and we’re off. Homeward bound. Still a long way off but every turn of the wheels is taking me in the right direction.

The whole morning my lungs are being beaten black and blue. I don’t want to breathe in. If it’s not the black spot of an overloaded 50 year old truck struggling up a mountain at 5mph, then it’s the blue smoke of an ancient Mercedes saloon with piston rings that fit the bore about as tightly as a catholic with 15 kids fits his wife.

Luckily I have a solution. K&N, purveyors of washable motorcycle air filters contacted me before this trip and asked me to prototype a pair of washable lung linings that travellers like me can have fitted. It’s not a pleasant operation. Removing and washing them is also an uncomfortable experience. And children, always remember not to remove lung lining 2 when lung lining 1 is still drying over the back of a chair. I did. I nearly died. Good job I can hold my breath for 20 minutes.

Anyway I used my rest day wisely and washed my lung linings yesterday. The bath looked like the whole of a colliery had used it after a shift.

And today they’re getting another battering as we head up towards Bishkek. It’s a dull few hours fighting idiot drivers that seem to have come direct from the doctors having been told they only have minutes left to live.

My camera also asked for a sleep in too. Apparently I’ve been overusing it and now it insists that its shutter gets some shuteye.

But 60 miles from the hotel that all changes. Mountains, vividly coloured water and smooth twisty roads you say? It would be rude not to.

Tonight’s destination is Toktogul Lake. Just a small one. Nothing special. And we are the only guests in a huge old soviet hotel. You know how that story usually ends

Well you didn’t expect me to just go cold turkey did you. There is plenty of time for that later. We.. well the Russian.. gets chatting to a few locals on the beach. All drinking vodka before driving 49km back home through the mountains. They give me a HUGE shot and look at me. Fuck. My empty stomach immediately sends messages to my brain to suspend all cognitive function and I’m immediately completely wankered.

Today in the last day in the mountains. Still they’ll still be here if I come back. As long as I don’t leave it 20 million years.

Our hotel is bathed in morning sunshine. Our mountains are getting bathed in rain. We can see curtains of it falling on the horizon. But we live in hope. After an hour or so starts so we stop to put the gimp suits on. The Russian’s bike won’t turn over. ‘I know what this is’ he says as he goes all motorcycle gynaecologist, sticks his fingers inside his bike and pulls out its G-spot. He then proceeds to short across its 2 little pink terminals and with a big spark the bike leaps into life. He looks well versed at it. Maybe it’s how he gets his wife started. I did notice that the lead he used was pink with hearts on . Russian women are notoriously difficult to get going.. apparently..

Off-road tyres and rain go together like tits and scissors. And I’d have done well to remember that as I entered a small village in the storm. I see a dog on the side of the road. He’s going to go for me. He’s off and running and he’s obviously been in training. The bastard is on course for an imminent appointment with my front wheel. So.. I change down two gears, accelerate hard, and mimic a slow motion sequence from The Matrix. The back wheel just kicks straight out and I’m massively sideways (probably about an inch) The front tyre and the dog’s nose kiss gently just as I stear and throttle back to bring the bike back into line. The Bitxh could have done that herself but sometimes she likes to dare me. I can feel her laughing between my legs.. that’s not the first time I’ve experienced that sensation either

We’ve got some high passes to cross and as we climb the temperature drops. In the summer the mountains are awash with bees making мед, but now all the bees have carefully cleaned the nectar off their fur with their little honeycombs and flown south for the winter.

Get to the top of the first pass and it’s down near zero. Time to put the smugglers on then But the budgie has flown. I checked the nest . it”s been completely abandoned

The next 60 miles are fucking freezing. We climb another pass, through some snow clouds chucking it all over the road, through a long tunnel and emerge to a mercifully dry, but still nipple tensiingly cold descent back to ground level to defrost.

The ride into Bishkek is the usual bitch. It’s a massive one way system. The one way to do it is to look after number one and ride like a water droplet running down a window pain. Dodge and weave and jig and jink your way though it.

My Russian friend wants to travel a bit less exuberantly than I do so tonight we’re staying at a hostel. Now. Listen. Next time you balk at the price of a hotel room compared to that of a hostel remember this. A hotel spends money on signage so you can find the fucking place. It isn’t just a random door on a floor above a barber shop. A hotel pays a receptionist to take your money. It doesn’t ask you to get a card machine out the cupboard, plug it in, put in the amount you want to pay then hold your card against it. And when that doesn’t work the receptionist is unlikely to ask you to phone a random number and make an international bank transfer, and when that doesn’t work she’s unlikely to tell you to hide the cash In a cupboard and say she’ll collect it later. And hotel rooms give you your own bathroom, which is unlikely to contain enough hair in the shower trap to allow you to create a massive wig and become a Tina Turner tribute act.

But apart from that it’s perfect. You’ll also be glad to know that international bedroom borders are still being respected

The Russia has been suffering the last couple of days. I think he’s consummated every toilet in the last 200 miles. So I left him to sleep and went out for a walk, and another shave. I’m determined to get a good wet shave this trip and it’s not happened so far. Walk in. Very hot towel. Good start. He’s not a Master but he’s doing ok. Feels nice and smooth, just a spray of something nice to finish. He grabs a can from the table, covers my eyes, and in an impressive slight of hand swaps the can for a petrol pump and pours 95 octane into all my open pours.

FUUUUUUUUCK THAT!! It’s a bloody good job I chose an S&M barber that’s for sure. If he hadn’t bound and handcuffed me to the chair and put a pool ball in my mouth when I sat down, then I’d have surely bitten my tongue clean off and hit the sodding roof.

I wander back looking for dinner. As I walk past all the queueibg traffic, every car I pass starts revving. Must be my new cologne. Still, it does t stop me having the best meal of the trip so far.

Oh yea. I need some new socks, so I spent 4 hours in here looking for a new pair. They only had some rubber ones, in different flavours apparently, and some with spikes on the inside. I presume that’s to aid circulation. I went for the spikes. Bit uncomfortable with my bike boots on but I quite like to suffer occasionally it makes me feel alive.

 

[monkeyboy]

The Russian took some drugs last night, but this morning he’s still Russian.. to the toilet every 2 minutes. Poor bugger. It all stems from some Plov that we had at the rubbish dump in Murgab the other night. I ate one forkful and it tasted off. It tasted vaguely sweet like it had been retrieved from a month old takeaway box left on the sun. I only had the one forkful and it was enough to force me into leaving a big deposit of fly food during an emergency evacuation at the side of the lake the next day. But the Russian ate the lot

So this morning I went for a huge fat boy English breakfast at the place I ate last night then we went for a tour of the Bishkek public convienences. Just another city. Same same but different.

I only bought my ‘day’ eyes with me because I didn’t think we’d be riding at night. The Russian wants to stay for a while to try and wring his bowel dry so I leave him to join me later and head out of Kyrgystan and back into Kazakhstan. It’s a very busy border but it’s as quick and simple as it gets. In. Out. Shake it all about

The road initially runs west for 150 miles back along the Kyrgystan border. It’s quite sad looking at the mountains. It’s like looking over your rich neighbours fence, when his athletic wife is playing tennis, after a swim. Forget I said that. That’s what happens when my brain has little to do. It wanders. It wonders. And she doesn’t play tennis either. She’s the captain of the Yummy Mummies beach volleyball team. Forget I said that too. Look at some mountains from afar like I did.

Tonight’s hotel is in the basement of the bargain basement’s basement again. It looks ok. But it has just a couple of minor flaws. The door to the room looks normal, but has a problem in that it only lets 80% of my body pass through it.

The enclosed shower cubicle also seems to be mounted on 2 marbles. When you get in it moves, tips and has you falling about all over the place. It appears, using only the powers of deduction you understand, to be an anti self-abuse prototype. Should someone be foolish enough to start burping their worm in the cubicle, it will fall on its side trapping the incumbent inside until the mastsrbation police can turn up to arrest them.

Yep you’re right…. It’s a slow news day

Today is a head down, arse up day. As luck would have it there is an uncommon event happening this evening that the Russian and I are keen to witness if we can. We are in the vicinity anyway. In Kazakhstan, 450 miles away definately counts as ‘in the vicinity’

So it’s fuel, tarmac, and a long day playing catski and mouseki with the police.

With a short stop in Kzylorda for plov. The Russian will we riding alone tomorrow as he needs to do some big miles to be home in Moscow in 5 days.

I did think about going with him. Back in the mists of time when I was young and owned a comb, my arse was rock solid. It was so hard you wouldn’t be able to drive a nail into it. After I did an iron butt bun burner gold ride of over 1500 miles in 24 hours, Penzance to John O’Groats and back to Penzance, my wife very kindly suggested she’d like to put that theory to the test. She hired a nail gun, voluntarily dressed up like Sarah Connor, which was nice, and tried putting a full clip into my backside. The result? Bent nails. But now I’m over 60 and my arse is soft and wrinkly like a deflated balloon you find behind the couch three weeks after a birthday party. Definitely not nail resistant any more

So I decided I’m going to just keep the miles down. We did 450 today and the balloon just about stayed inflated but I don’t want to push my luck any further. A burst arse would be a problem to fix out here.

Anyhow. We eventually get to the semi-derelict building that will be our beds for the night. Its a tip. It’s falling apart, the bathroom has biohazard written all over it and the place smells like it was decorated by Bobby Sands. There are probably only 3 or 4 other people I know that would stay here, and 2 or 3 of those live inside my head with me.

But the Nana in charge tells us we can watch the even out of the bedroom window.

We need to negotiate a price. These rooms are obviously in high demand. This isn’t something you can see every day. If this was we’d have had to book it 2 years ago and sell a kidney to pay for it. I’m wondering if I have enough cash on me. But then she says ‘3000 each’.

‘What? Pounds? Dollars?’

‘Niet. Tenge’

So, that’s about £4.50 for the room for the night with a (long distance) view of the Baikonor launch site out the window. I think that’s what would be generally considered to be a bloody bargain

I don’t know what the ‘right place right time’ odds are for this sort of thing, but, I was randomly in Florida on holiday and managed to see a Space Shuttle launch. Twice. And now I’m here in Baikonor on a launch day too. My life does sometimes seem to be a series of very fortunate events