I hitched a ride with my soul By the side of the road Just as the sky turned black I took a walk with my fame Down memory lane I never did find my way back

PROLOGUE

There’s a bit of a tradition I’ve developed over the years of cycling long distances that involves blasting Oasis albums on repeat for the last 24 hours of a ride. The sequence of tracks have the right level of angst, introspection and raw anger that somehow fits my temperament perfectly at that point and quells the protests of my body with a snarling aggression to get the job done.  Whilst I’m aware I’m compounding northern stereotypes with such an admission there’s something in the lyrics that speak of the doubts I’ve suppressed along the road and the concerns I have of taking my mind to that thin red line of what my body is capable of time and time again.

'Well, we've got where we wanted to be, but it's been f---in hard work.’ Is Noel’s typically blunt reply when asked about the lyrics of ‘Hey Now’ – my most played in the final miles. For me those lyrics are about choosing what defines you, the price you pay for the success you thought you wanted and the risks and rewards of selfishly feeding your own ego. There’s no time for running away now, Hey Now! Hey Now!

I’m sitting in Istanbul airport staring blankly at an obscene amount of food, children clamber over stools clamouring for happy meals whilst greased back business men with hollow importance hassle the checkout. The scene couldn’t be in starker contrast to three days previous when the generosities of nomadic subsistence rescued me from a calorie deficit I was struggling to get on top of. I feel the red-hot prickles or irritation and suddenly feel very claustrophobic. I remove myself to a quiet corner to eat my McFlurry in silent contemplation. I feel detached, distant – somehow removed from the reality of the present. By the time I make it on to the plane for the final leg of the journey home I’m somehow surprised at my whereabouts, the memory of navigating customs and security seemingly lost in transit.  The words of ‘Hey Now’ play over and I worry how much of my soul I’ve left by the side of the road.

Over the passing weeks the endorphins of accomplishment gradually wear off and the fatigue I’d ignored for far too long takes hold with firm and familiar grip. If motivation really is a finite resource I definitely burnt through my quota. I feel numb, as if on auto-pilot for the dialogues I must have and the jobs I must do and I drift along in silent protest at my own normality.

Every high must have its equivalent low, but the length of time it's taking to get back to a recognizable state of mind is beginning to worry me. I keep this concern to myself, put trust in the process, and in the passing time pretend to be the person people expect. Whilst I fumble along, I am subtly aware that the glazed eyes and labored conversation are not going unnoticed. My wife understands, she doesn’t say anything but her patience gives me the space to figure things out. Writing helps, it channels the effort needed to pick through the details and untangle the chronology. As I jot down notes and piece together sentences for moments that fade in and out of focus I feel my mind commiting the experience to clear understandable memory. In the attempt to articulate the drama and scale of the ride, the feelings of physical pains and aches dissolve. What remains are powerful thoughts about the imagery and emotion of the journey.

One weekend, not long after returning, I find myself nodding along to a Sunday shopping list. Under the surface I am still elsewhere, surveying golden plains and watching eagles soar –’ I can survive for weeks off instant noodles’ I thought as I agreed to buy the fifteen condiments needed for the new Ottolenghi dish. Without warning I am arguing about the difference between a regular lemon and the type that’s preserved and in a jar. It takes some time, but I eventually realise the source of Kelsy’s frustration might just be the absence of her husband and not the length of time it takes to pickle a citrus fruit. It jolts me from my self-indulgence and I make a promise to start finding enjoyment in the small acts of living once more. Soon there’ll be a new goal or obsession and I’ll be back to the futile two-wheeled search for enlightenment once again. Life goes on, the wheel keeps turning, get over yourself.

THE GHOST OF THE SILK ROAD

The weeks leading up to the Silk Road Mountain Race flew by, the list of jobs, changing travel plans and agonizing over the details of my setup never ended. I was relieved, if anything, to start turning the pedals when the time finally came. The race started at midnight in the southern city of Osh. I hadn’t managed to sleep, nervous apprehension had seen to that. I was far from relaxed but as the riders gathered under the cities statue of Lenin and set off to the tinkle of bike bells and hoots of passers-by, a sense of calm fell over me and I smiled with excitement for the road ahead.  After a police escort and a gentle roll out of town along wide soviet boulevards, the bike lights of participants began to stretch out as far as the eye could see, snaking off into the darkness. One long caravan, screeching, whirring and ticking. Hundreds of unique personal journeys, illuminating one single route. Not all who set out would finish but the severity of the terrain, the scale of the landscape and the extremes of the climate would leave their mark on all those that dared.

It was difficult not to draw parallels with the traders that sought out the riches of the Silk Road, often at great personal risk. I would think often of these romantic notions throughout the ride, as I traded coins for peach ice tea, sought refuge from herdsman and dodged nefarious drunkards and bandits through some of the larger market towns.

The road, that first night and into the day, did not relent in its trajectory to the summit of Jiptik pass at 4100m. Landslides across the route itself made the path to follow as hard to find as the oxygen in the air. Towards the top there was no other way of navigating other than aiming for the lowest spot on the ridgeline and hauling the bike over the scree towards it. With my sea-level lungs and no time to acclimatise, the first 24 hours brought me extremely close to my limit. Eight of those hours probably passed counting steps and breaths and when the ridgeline finally came the descent off the other side was unrideable and took serious focus on tired legs to avoid falling rocks. Once down, there was smooth tarmac along the Pamir Highway to where I knew there would be hot food and a guest house. Night fell and a blustering head wind whipped up, requiring concentration to stay on the road. It was starting to feel a bit unsafe with trucks passing closer than I'd have liked. At the first sign of a settlement I used the international symbol for bed and a young local lad beckoned me to a guesthouse away from the main road. In the lobby, I again mimed for soup and a bed and in the time it took the smiling lady to check if there was space I had passed out on the comfortable restaurant seating. I’d been riding for some 26 hours and had traveled less than 160 kilometers. In the shadows of my thoughts, doubts had begun to take root. 

It was still dark outside when I woke from four hours of deep sleep completely confused by my surroundings. It took a while to remember I hadn’t made it to bed and that someone in the night must have cocooned me with blankets and cushions. There was a huge flask of tea left on the table still hot from the night before and I gulped it down greedily as I gathered my things. Given I’d pretty much slept where I’d dropped I was ready for the road very quickly.  I drew a bike on a napkin, folded ten dollars inside and set off into the early hours of day two.

The following days proved just as difficult as I adjusted to the demands of the race. Food was harder to come by than I imagined which meant a more conservative approach to calorie consumption and the temperatures and dust wreaked havoc with my systems for forward progress. In the wide, exposed valleys the midday heat was unbearable and without knowledge of when the next resupply would come, the risk I took with heat stroke felt dangerous.

A few years ago I would have likely ignored the pounding headaches and twinges of cramps with a blinkered view for gaining race position but with plenty of experience of getting it wrong I opted on the side of self perseverance. The following days passed in the hunt for shade and fridges as I tried keeping pace with the front groups by riding later into the night and rising earlier from my bivvy. The strategy wasn’t sustainable and I eventually adjusted the alarm clocks to trust my instincts. In this process of compromise between mind and body I began to find the limits of a routine that felt right.

The route was spectacular and ever-changing. Within a morning you could be picking your way through moon-like boulder fields and after a descent that wouldn’t look out of place in the Swiss Alps be zipping down sandstone gorges with deep, red rock faces on either side.  It always seemed that the beauty of the landscape was proportional to how hard the riding was and I often had to take myself out of the race mentality to gain some perspective on my situation. There were certainly worse places for glycogen-depleted tantrums than watching burning sunsets over the Tien Shan. 

In the psychology of my own ride I had highlighted the city of Naryn as a major objective. A place where I could take stock of my own condition, take rest if  needed and importantly find mechanical or medical attention if things hadn’t gone to plan. Within the geography of the route it also marked the transition between the dusty south and the start of a series of high mountain passes heading north.  Once a fortress on the main caravan route east from Kashgar, Naryn now boasts an ample supply of western comforts. The allure of such a place after five days on the road has been the undoing of many a ride. Amongst racers it had gained the reputation as ‘scratch-city’ and I was therefore keen not to dwell too long after my evening feast of double pizza and chips. Buoyed by the first decent meal in a while and a supermarket shop full of sugar, I rode late into the night ignoring the signs for guest houses that lined the road. I had used precious battery and data to download a few new albums in Naryn and I listened to ‘Play’ by Moby some five times that night, chewing my way through a family bag of strawberry laces. The trails were easy to follow after Naryn and just smooth enough to zone out to a rhythm of pedaling and 90’s dance riffs. The moon was out in full and I could tell from the dark shapes on the horizon and the increasing effort it was taking to pedal that I was heading up into the hills. It was the first night to really get cold and despite a bit of unease about what layers I'd packed, my first thoughts were relief that the heat of the Fergana valley was now firmly behind. Eventually I found a field of long grass in a pocket of warmer air and watched shooting stars through the tightened hood of my sleeping bag till I drifted off.

That morning I woke to the surroundings of a completely different country. The pale hues of yellow hillsides and sandy tracks had been replaced by the vibrant alpine colors of a landscape nourished by glacial meltwater. Pine forests and lush meadows lined the winding road up the valley and it suddenly felt like I was on a very different ride. The air was cooler and cleaner and I began to feel much stronger on the pedals as I stomped my way through the loose rocks with intent. 

Riding up the pass, I could see the dust trails of a car driving slowly the other way. As it got closer I could make out the silhouette of a bike strapped to its roof. The car stopped as our paths crossed. Before the doors opened I had already worked out who it was, I recognised the colour and bags of the bike on top. I had met Harry at Further East, a 600k long weekender in the UK the previous year. We’d shared the train back, enthusiastically outlining our dreams of one day racing the Silk Road and kept in touch since, geeking out on tyre choices and sharing kit grids and blogs. Harry had been smashing it, riding strongly in the top 10 and it had been inspiring to check his dot whenever I looked at the tracker. Unfortunately a mixture of heat stroke and a stomach bug he’d picked up on the road had quickly spiraled into a very bad situation. When I saw him that morning his speech was slurred and he looked incredibly unstable on his feet. Thankfully he’d made the sensible decision to heed the warning signs from his body and head back down from altitude. He would rest and hope the sickness would pass but it took hold with a vengeance and his race ended, hooked up to an IV drip back in scratch-city. 

It was awful to see his race unraveling but worse seeing a fellow rider in such a state. The encounter came just as my confidence was peaking, perhaps straying into arrogance. It was a real reminder of how some bad luck, some dirty water or a dodgy meal can derail even the strongest riders. I thought about that most of the day and took caution where it would allow. Thankfully he made a full recovery.

That night was a jet black speckled by the cosmic dust of galaxies and constellations I’d never seen but my world was confined to the 3m radius of my front light. As I pushed higher and higher, making the hulking forms of looming mountains a low horizon I suddenly became aware of how vulnerable I was in this great expanse - a few cogs, a couple of layers of clothing, the small breadcrumb trail of a gpx file powered by my last double A batteries. In such a context it is difficult not to think about how quickly ambition can lead to ruin. From that vulnerability however, at 3am, over 3000m on a plateau I’d only just discovered, came another feeling entirely, a feeling of empowerment from deep within. I felt weightless and free, unburdened by every doubt and fear I’d ever dwelled on. I had not eaten for a good 8 hours but the strength was flowing out of every pore and I hammered the pedals till the emotive magic wore off. 

That night I didn’t really sleep. It was cold enough on the tops to make a rest feel more like a concern than a comfort. I knew if I stopped I would wake more hungry than I was and that I’d waste valuable calories shivering my way off the hill. I pressed on. Eventually though, despite best efforts, my eyes could stay open no longer and I took refuge behind a large boulder. I wrapped myself up in everything I had including an emergency bivvy and quickly fell asleep. At some point whilst I slept I must have rolled out from the shelter of the rocks for I woke to the foil of the emergency shelter whipping at my face. It had ripped in the night and was rustling loudly as it unfurled in the wind around me. It looked and felt dramatic and I was shocked into action, packing quickly and setting off with the foil tucked up and zipped between jackets.

The colour’s in the very early dawn are by far my favourite in a day. There’s a set time where the pastel yellows of the low horizon perfectly contrast with the darker shades above to bring out a deep glow to the blue between. It’s a colour that resembles the kindness in my mothers eyes and the wisdom in my Grandads, perhaps this is why the dawn restores and inspires. That morning the high mountains trapped the sky in that balance of deep blue for what felt like hours and I rode towards its promise, passing the reflection of it in lakes, rivers and snow capped peaks with tired happiness. 

The descent off the Arabel plateau via Jukuu Pass was technically challenging. There were rideable lines to be had but steep drops and loose rocks meant the risks outweighed the reward. I spent the morning walking, skidding and falling downhill whilst fantasizing about breakfast, it took all my restraint not to point the wheels downhill with reckless abandon. Eventually at the end of a long, washboard road I found a well stocked shop and I replenished my bags. I folded tinned fish into big round breads and ate the makeshift calzones till I was full. The past 24 hours had taken a lot out of me and I was thankful for the respite of the smooth tarmac that led to Checkpoint two.

The Checkpoint was located 1300 kilometres along the route on the shores of Lake Issyk-Kul. Though Kyrgyzstan is land-locked on all sides, the scale of Issyk-Kul makes riding round its shores feel like a trip to the seaside. Its beaches were popular holiday spots in the soviet era and the resorts that line the lake reflect this past in the crumbling grandeur of their brutalist architecture. There were a number of riders already at the checkpoint who were ambling around and tinkering with their bikes. It was still daylight when I arrived and there was plenty of food on offer. The atmosphere was warm and convivial and by the time I left with a full belly and a hastily serviced bike I had started to believe I’d make it round.

The spikes in the elevation profile came thick and fast from then on. Tosor pass came straight after the checkpoint, quickly followed by a desperate 8 hours into a headwind on the other side. I judged my sleeping and mileage to make it to the following checkpoint in two big days where I knew I could get a good meal and sleep in a proper bed. Gauging speed and calculating my arrival at milestones in this way began to occupy a large part of my thinking and I began to obsess over the finish line.  From the bikes lined outside the yurts at checkpoint three it was clear that this had been the plan others had landed on. Though we each arrived to camp at various hours throughout the night we all woke for an early breakfast feast together. A large table set to one side of the circular tent was full of food. There were small ceramic bowls of jams, big ladles of porridge, good coffee and herbal teas, Kefir and unlimited pancake stacks with yak butter and sugar to coat them in. It was a special morning with ten to twelve riders packed in around the table layered up in brightly colored down jackets and Kyrgyz blankets. Given the route profile, all around the table would have been aware that this was the competition for a top 20 result, but rather than rushing through breakfast an unspoken strike against the race clock took place and we enjoyed the warmth of each other's company whilst waiting for second, third and then fourth portions of porridge. We had all met at various points during the race so far, shared meals together, camped near one another or spotted each other through deep flowing river crossings. There was a deep bond through shared experience and lifelong friendships were made that morning. 

Eventually the itch of the race brought us back to our priorities and we set off together at our own speeds. I had eaten a huge amount, knowing I could potentially make it to the finish in a single push if the sleep demons were kind. Shamsi Pass was the big obstacle between there and the finish line and I reached its base that evening feeling strong and motivated to get the job done. The route was tricky to find but vaguely followed a small river. With cloud cover making the night very dark and my lights dieing, I relied on the sound of running water for navigation. It took about 6 hours of hike-a-bike to get to the top and I summited at about 2am. From there the elevation profile sloped down all the way to the finish but the descent down Shamsi had been decimated by landslides. Routing around it involved some serious river crossings and by 6am I was shivering uncontrollably and dangerously falling asleep behind the wheel. I made the decision to get into my sleeping bag with my wet shoes, socks and clothes all still on and waited for the warming rays of sunrise.

The final day was quick and relatively painless, once down off the mountain tracks there was around 60k of road to the finish. The tarmac felt amazing under my incredibly worn tyres and thoughts of climbing out of the saddle as a Silk Road finisher brought tears of happiness to my eyes. I had hoped to make the most of this last day, perhaps even enjoy a sit-down breakfast after the long night but the tracker showed a handful of dots not too far behind. From the vantage point of a small rise I could see the silhouettes of a pair of riders who were rapidly hunting me down. Keen not to put my overnighter to waste, I rode as hard as my aching body would let me and thankfully held off the advancing parties. I arrived at the final checkpoint in Bishkek at about 3pm that day. I chatted with Nelson, a couple of other riders turned up, we drank some beers and I sent a few selfies to whatsapp groups who’d followed my dot. It was, of course, understated and a huge anti-climax but I wouldn’t have wanted anything else. As soon as the final stamp was pressed into my Brevet I had already begun to lament the open road. 

Whilst I'm not sure what the next years will hold, and what the next challenge may be, I am without a doubt that those twelve days chasing the ghost of the silk road will define me for a very long time to come. It is always difficult to articulate why you do these things, why you choose to put yourself through such discomfort. I think about it a lot when riding and my answer is complex.

I guess it's cliche to say that it's about the journey rather than the destination, but the feelings I get from these adventures, the highs and more importantly the lows feed into all aspects of my life and identity. These long rides are always bigger journeys for the mind than the body. I battle my inner demons, find new limits and through the process of overcoming the challenge, gain a better, more complete understanding of myself.

Deep thanks to everyone who supports, inspires and allows me the time and space to do it.

 photos of me below by Nils Laengner