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Video day 14:
Day 14 – Friday, August 29, 2025
5 km to the Crash
Hermann: 150 km to Karakol, then another 340 km by taxi to the hospital in Bishkek
Gabi: 150 km by “taxi” to collect the bikes, 150 km back to Karakol, then on to Bishkek
In the morning we have breakfast in the tent; outside, the temperature is below freezing.
I find one last small bag of Morgenstund porridge, and luckily we still have enough gas for hot water. We enjoy what we jokingly call our “last meal.” Of course, we don’t yet know how close to the truth that will turn out to be.
The tent, covered in frost this icy morning, is packed away for the last time. All our other belongings find their way back into the panniers. It’s high time we returned to civilization—order is something else entirely, and not only we, but also our gear, could use some serious care. But this last day—we want to enjoy it.
My snack supply is running low, but I manage to dig up a few Snickers and gummy bears. We’ll be on the road all day with no chance to buy food, though for lunch we still have tinned fish, cheese, and bread. Around 150 kilometers lie ahead of us: first about 25 km through this lonely valley to a military station, then another climb up to the 4,000-meter-high Chon Ashuu Pass. The plan promises a few kilometers of asphalt along the way. Nice!
From the pass down to Karakol we can look forward to almost 100 kilometers of descent.
If all goes well, we’ll be there by evening. We’d be a whole day ahead of the “Snail.” Who would have thought? I’m happy for Hermann. Even though he’s no longer officially listed after my three-day breakdown, he’ll still be a finisher. Great!
My husband pulls me out of my early-morning daydreams. We have to get going if we want to reach Karakol before dark. He rolls off while I’m still sorting through my things—as usual. Hermann often teases me about what there is still to knafln. (“Knafln” is a South Tyrolean dialect word for when someone fusses around or dawdles—a bit teasing, but affectionate.) That fits perfectly. I’m always trying, mostly in vain, to bring some sort of order to my chaos. The problem is, once we’re on the road, I can’t find half my stuff because it’s wandered from its original place. Either way—annoying!
Hermann has already disappeared around the next bend when I finally set off too.
The track is gravelly, larger stones along the edges, and every so often a heap of loose rocks to plow through. I stay to the right — that seems to be the safest line. Thank goodness we didn’t ride through here at night.
One more curve — whoa, suddenly it gets really steep. I shift my weight back, grip the brakes tightly, trying to remember what Hermann always says: “Keep the handlebars loose — the bike will find its way.” But this is definitely too steep for me. I get off.
As I let my gaze wander down the path…
Hermann???
There he is, in the middle of the steep section, sitting right on the two-track trail, his bike beside him, a few feathers floating in the air. He’ll get up in a second, I think, and climb back on. But he doesn’t.
I’m at his side in no time, lean my bike against the rock wall, kneel down beside him.
“What happened?”
Hermann says he thinks he tried to switch from the left track to the right one. The front wheel must have jammed in the strip of coarse gravel in between, and the bike threw him off. He can’t move his right foot — when he tries, there’s pain in his groin. What to do? We rest for a moment. Maybe it’s just a bruise or something. But we have to get off the track. I push the bike to the edge. The spot is a bit blind — if another rider came down fast, they’d only see us at the last moment. And sure enough, someone’s coming — Peter or Ethan? We’re not sure. We tell him what happened and discuss what to do next. There’s no internet here at the end of the world. Who knows when we’ll have a signal again.
By now we realize it’s impossible to go on. The rider promises to get help down in the valley as soon as he meets someone.
It’s below freezing. The sun is rising, but on the opposite mountainside. I tuck Hermann into his sleeping bag, help him sit up against the rock wall, wrap him in every piece of clothing I can find. For now, he’s not cold. But what now? The SOS button seems out of the question — it’s meant for “life-threatening” emergencies, and we’re probably not quite there.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see movement below us. Only then do I notice a sheep pen and a tiny hut beside it. A man has just stepped out. I hurry down to him. Using the translator app on my phone, I explain what’s happened. Luckily, I’ve downloaded Russian and Kyrgyz, so it works offline. I ask if there’s any internet nearby to call for help. He shakes his head, then says that about ten kilometers down the valley there’s a house with internet — at least that’s what I understand. Then he makes a riding gesture, like “horse,” then another like “driving a car,” and walks off toward the mountains.
Empty-handed, I go back up to Hermann. I set up the gas stove so he can have something warm to drink. From the little hut below, a woman appears and heads to a makeshift outhouse — four poles and a cloth for privacy, just like everywhere else. So, there are more people around than I thought.
Not long after, the shepherd comes down the mountainside, leading a saddled horse on a long rope. The two approach us. He gestures for Hermann to get on the horse.
But that’s impossible. The man, at least two heads shorter than Hermann, simply hoists him up and carries him on his back down the 200 meters to his little hut.
I gather all our things scattered around the spot. Then the shepherd comes back up, points to me and then toward the hut. He grabs Hermann’s bike and — before I can even react — swings himself onto the saddle. I hold my breath. The next accident in the making? The slope is steep, the bike far too big for him. I follow cautiously, wobbling behind, watching every move. But he handles it masterfully — gravel track, grassy edge, rough meadow — all the way down to the hut.
After taking off my shoes, I step into the tiny home. The little house, no more than three by three meters, is completely covered with blankets. Two small boys are still asleep. The space is so tight that four people could barely lie side by side. Hermann is already propped up on the blankets.
We talk things over. I’ll try to ride the supposed ten kilometers down the valley to inform Nelson, so he can send us a “taxi.” The track should be passable. I hand our hosts everything I have left — a tin of fish, a pack of cheese, some cookies, a loaf of bread — and set off.
I don’t get far before I reach the first stream crossing. No time to think; I wade straight through. Wet feet are nothing compared to Hermann’s injury — I can’t afford to be fussy now or waste time taking off my shoes. Onward!
I’ve just climbed back on the bike, shivering with cold, when a white car approaches. (If you ask a woman — me — what kind of car it was, the answer will simply be: “a white one.”) I motion for them to stop; the window rolls down and two faces look at me expectantly. I ask if they speak German or English. I’m completely flustered and babbling; they seem to understand only that I’m looking for an internet connection. They explain that there’s none until Karakol — at least 150 kilometers away. Then they drive on.
Desperate, I keep pedaling. I’ve covered barely five kilometers since the hut when I meet Paolo V. — an Italian, to my great relief. He tells me that — let’s call him Peter — has told him about the accident, and that they’ve already used his tracker, which can send messages, to contact Nelson. There’s no reply yet.
I see the white car returning. Paolo tells me that the tourist couple had spent the night nearby in their car. They had gone to pick up Hermann. Greta and Alessandro tell us they couldn’t find him and had turned back. We soon discover that all four of us are Italians — that makes things immediately easier. I leave my bike lying on the ground and drive off with Alessandro toward Hermann.
In the meantime, the little hut has been tidied up and Hermann has been invited to breakfast. In the middle of the room, a plate piled high with gnawed bones serves as the centerpiece. The shepherd’s family helps Hermann into the passenger seat of their Mitsubishi 4×4 — white, as I’ve learned (yes, it’s white too…). Hermann’s bike stays behind; there’s simply no room for our steel horses in the car. Alessandro drives, while Greta and I sit on the sleeping platform in the back. Comfortable it’s not — and there’s no view either, except straight ahead through the windshield.
My only thought is to reach Karakol. As we drive down the valley, we pass the spot where I had carelessly left my bike lying in the grass. We stop, and I hide it behind a pile of stones. A little farther on, I notice a simple house with an orange façade — a landmark to help me find the bike again later. But the thought of having to come all this way back makes me uneasy. I’ll first have to find someone willing to take me here — who knows when that will be. And Hermann? What will happen to him? The hospital? He’ll have to manage there on his own.
For now, though, I’m here. What comes, comes — whether I worry or not.
Greta and Alessandro are from Rome and spending their vacation here in Kyrgyzstan, touring around and visiting the most beautiful places. One highlight, they say, was spending the night up here amid the dreamlike backdrop of the Tian Shan mountains. They were heading back to Karakol anyway — their fuel was running low. That eases my guilty conscience a little; at least they don’t have to make the 150 rugged kilometers just for us.
The rough track shakes us thoroughly, though luckily Hermann feels little pain. The gravel road runs parallel to a raging river — sometimes right beside it, then higher up along the slope. In many places the earth has crumbled away at the roadside, and I don’t even dare look down into the abyss. I’d never have the courage to drive here myself. But Alessandro handles it calmly, almost effortlessly.
Twenty kilometers later, we reach the military checkpoint we’d been told about. The two show their paper permits. Hermann and I are met with questioning looks. I hand over my passport and, using the translator app, explain that I’m a participant in the Silk Road Mountain Race. The soldier looks puzzled — are we trying to fool him? A bike race without bikes? Up front, a flurry of activity: Hermann has just realized that his passport is still in the bag on his bike. He only has his ID card with him. For a moment it seems they won’t let us through. What now? We don’t have enough fuel to drive the twenty kilometers back. We try explaining everything with Google Translate, and finally, the guards take pity on us. We’re allowed to pass.
The road up to the pass — supposedly paved — does exist, but it’s in terrible shape. Deep, sharp-edged potholes jolt us mercilessly. Poor Hermann. Then it turns back to gravel again. After hours of bumping along, I can barely keep myself upright without anything to lean against. Eventually, I dare to ask Greta if I might lie down. From that angle, I can actually see more of the landscape, and I even drift off for a few minutes.
After six long hours, we finally make it. We’re dropped off at the finish area, where the race doctor takes charge of Hermann. I repeat my thanks over and over to our two rescuers — they absolutely refuse any kind of reward, not even a tank of fuel. Later, they even have to drive back because Hermann’s helmet was still in the car. Oh dear! Once again, a thousand thanks to Greta and Alessandro from Rome!
It soon becomes clear that Hermann needs to go to the nearest hospital. The nearest one? That’s in Bishkek — another 340 kilometers away. I can’t go with him, since we agree that I should try to retrieve our bicycles. We won’t see each other again until two evenings later.
Nelson’s father is kind enough to drive me to the next shop to get supplies for Hermann and myself. Hermann is helped into a taxi. He’ll arrive about eight hours later, around midnight, and be examined.
I wander through the finish area in a daze. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice some riders crossing the finish line, but it barely registers — my mind is elsewhere. How will I get our bikes? Will I manage to take them apart and pack them up? And how on earth will I get around Bishkek with two huge bike boxes? But first, I have to fetch the bikes. I have no idea how that’s going to work — it’s already half past three in the afternoon. And I don’t even have a hotel for the night.
While I’m paying at the supermarket, Nelson’s father rushes over and says we need to hurry — Nelson has found a taxi for me.
I say a quick goodbye to my husband and look for the taxi outside the gate, but there’s nothing in sight except a small, round metal tin on wheels. Seriously? That’s it? I’m introduced to Nikolai, a young blond man with a beard — he’s supposed to take me over the Chon Ashuu Pass into the remote valley. In that little tin can.
I squeeze myself into the very back row of worn-out seats — there are three rows including the driver’s. No seatbelts, of course.
Nikolai takes off, weaving through the heavy afternoon traffic. More than once I squeeze my eyes shut and hold my breath, as if that might somehow make us thinner, while he darts into the third lane, overtaking other cars that are already overtaking, despite oncoming traffic.
Thankfully, from the back I can’t see everything. And since there’s still some cell coverage here, I use the time to sort things out. I have to inform our children, Katrin and Lukas — they’re on their way to a mountain hut. If they’re going to help, it has to be now. I send them all the details of our insurance policies, the Alpine Club, and our European travel insurance. Katrin promises to contact them, but first she’ll check in with Hermann to find out how serious the injury is.
Relieved, I sink back into the seat. One worry less. Even if I still had reception later, I couldn’t make calls anyway — my phone plan only allows local calls within Kyrgyzstan.
My attention drifts back to the here and now. Despite the patched-up road, it’s riddled with potholes, and I’m launched several times all the way up to the roof. In my mind, I silently ask my parents — almost 90 and 85 years old — for forgiveness. They’ll probably have to grow old without their only daughter now.
But what choice do I have? Ask if I can get out? Not really. I resign myself to fate. Stay relaxed … even when the mountainside drops off into a gaping abyss just a meter away.
I try a bit of “bribery”: I offer Nikolai half my sandwich, some cookies, and a Snickers bar. I’m not sure whether that counts as hospitality, but he immediately gives me half of his KitKat in return. It doesn’t change his driving, though. Every now and then he glances at me in the rearview mirror, checking to see how Gabi in the back is holding up.
Just before the pass, Nikolai — of course — takes a shortcut that looks almost vertical. Is he out of his mind? He just laughs. And that little tin can of a vehicle climbs up without a hint of all-wheel drive or electronics — a feat that would leave any modern SUV gasping in defeat.
I have to hand it to the metal box. The engine groans and wheezes its way uphill, but Nikolai shows no mercy. And then we’re finally at the top of the Chon Ashuu Pass. The car gets a break to cool down; Nikolai lights a cigarette.
During the break, we “talk” through the translator app. Nikolai tells me more about his car:
Built in 1988, it’s a little bus made by the Russian company UAZ — nicknamed Tabletka (таблетка), meaning “pill,” because of its round shape.
When it’s time to go, Nikolai gestures invitingly, and I take the seat next to him in front. Off we go again. The engine is spared a little now, since the road stretches endlessly downhill. The old Tabletka bounces along the cratered gravel track, swaying as if it might topple at any moment. With its short wheelbase and high center of gravity, I can’t help gripping the seat every time we take a curve.
And yet — somehow — it just keeps going, as if it were indestructible. To dodge the potholes, Nikolai keeps veering onto the gravel shoulder, only centimeters from the edge of the abyss.
We reach the military checkpoint. Luckily, Nikolai manages to sort out the question of my “permit” — he has one himself.
Now there are still twenty kilometers to go down into the valley, and the track gets truly awful. But that doesn’t stop Nikolai: he drives his Tabletka at the same fearless pace, plowing straight through deep holes or swerving dangerously close to the edge.
Between the rock face on one side and the yawning drop on the other, my nerves begin to unravel. Why, of all things, does the English word “abyss” pop into my head? It sounds deep, dark — and far too close for comfort, starting right at the edge of the tires.
In the distance, I can already make out the tiny hut, with Hermann’s bike standing in front of it. I start to worry, though — I haven’t spotted the stone pile where I’d hidden my own bike. We passed a house earlier, but it was whitewashed. What if we don’t find my bicycle anymore?
The herder’s family welcomes us warmly. I’ve brought a few cookies for the children. I try to exchange a few words with the woman and the boys, using gestures more than language.
Meanwhile, Nikolai is circling the car, inspecting it carefully. After that hellish ride over rocks and potholes, is everything still in one piece? He bends down to look underneath — what’s he checking now? The driveshaft? Maybe the rough impacts have loosened some bolts or caused cracks? Is something leaking? No wonder he’s worried — he’s pushed his Bukhanka to the limit today. The Russians affectionately call this old UAZ van “the loaf of bread,” because of its rounded shape.
Hermann’s bike doesn’t fit in the car on the first try. Do we need to take it apart? After a bit of experimenting, it finally fits — though the wide handlebars poke Nikolai in the neck as he drives. A few more bumps later, everything somehow settles into place.
But there’s still that anxious question: will we find my bike? And is it even still there? I know it should be about five kilometers ahead, just after the stream crossing — near that orange house I remember.
Worried, I stare out the windshield. Where’s the pile of stones? Then, on the right, I spot an orange hut façade — it’s the same house as before, white on one side, orange on the other. No wonder I was confused earlier.
Relief floods through me as I see, at river level, the little mound — everything is still there, exactly as I left it more than ten hours ago. I don’t even want to think about everything that has happened since then… or what still lies ahead.
The ride back is nothing short of an adventure. Nikolai hurtles his Soviet-era minibus at over 80 km/h along the deeply rutted, dangerously tilted road. Sitting up front, I feel every single jolt — and all without a seatbelt. In case of an accident, I’d be shot straight through the windshield. But I gave up resisting fate long ago.
For the third time, I pass the barrier at the military checkpoint. On the climb toward the pass, we overtake one cyclist, then another. Nikolai shakes his head in disbelief — it’ll drop well below freezing up here tonight, near 4,000 meters. How reckless, he seems to think, these cyclists riding into the night with all that gear.
If you ask me, I’m the reckless one right now.
Dusk settles in; the mountain silhouettes glow against a blood-red sky. So beautiful. If only Hermann could see this. How is he doing now? Is he already at the hospital? Will they release him tomorrow? Thankfully, he has no idea of the fears running through me at this very moment. After that short pause on the Chon Ashuu Pass — for the third time today — we’re now descending again. To my horror, I realize that Nikolai is taking the steepest shortcut down.
In the beam of the headlights, every stone, every hole stands out sharply. Fear? Resignation? Or maybe trust — not surrender, but faith in the steady hands on the wheel and the old Tabletka that somehow always holds its line.
(If you want to see what this drive looks like, check out the Day 14 video — around minute 1:05.)
At last, only forty kilometers remain on the main road to Karakol. The asphalt is a patchwork, worse than the dirt tracks — but the end is near. And, finally, I have internet signal again.
The Tabletka rolls to a stop, the door swings open, and the bikes are unloaded.
Nikolai wants to tell me something — I catch the word “economy,” maybe? I don’t understand. Then he explains: Nelson had told him before departure that it was urgent. Suddenly, his breakneck driving makes perfect sense — it wasn’t just enthusiasm!
I hand Nikolai his well-earned payment. Not cheap — but I have our bikes back, and more importantly: I’m alive! I compliment his driving skills. Casually, I ask how old he is — only twenty-two!
There’s cheerful activity at the finish area as more riders arrive. Not for me, though. I’m just “DNF” — did not finish — and have been for days now. And now, I suppose… double DNF.
It’s already past nine in the evening when I finally set my things down.
What will this night bring? I don’t even have a room yet.
First, I want to find the restaurant Armin recommended, not far from the finish area. Guided by Google Maps, I head out. The street is pitch dark. Normally, I’d be nervous walking alone at this hour, but after the day I’ve had—with one frightening situation after another—there’s simply no fear left in me.
At the Duet Coffee Shop there’s still a lively crowd. And best of all—the place also has a hostel, and there’s even a room available for me.
They’re still serving food, too. The place is full of cyclists. I spot Jos and Markus and join them. Armin drops by a little later.
Later that night, I sink into a thankfully dreamless sleep—though not before a short call with Hermann. He gives me the grim news: a fractured femoral neck. The doctors recommend surgery soon, as the type of fracture would require a hip replacement. But he wants to consult with his doctors back home before deciding, and also discuss everything with the insurance companies.
The next morning, Hermann tells me he’s been transferred to another hospital. For now, he’s refusing surgery—and in any case, there wasn’t a bed available. The ambulance ride, lying flat the whole way, was painfully rough. Now he’s in a private orthopedic clinic in Bishkek, attached to the university’s medical faculty. It’s run by father and son, Sovetbek Kumushbekovich Kazakov and Iygilik Kazakov, specialists in hip and knee surgery.
Despite everything, Hermann sounds in good spirits. He says he’s comfortable—he has what he needs: a bed, food, and water.
As for me, a monumental task lies ahead: getting our bikes ready for the flight.
First, a proper breakfast—and then, a new place to stay. Luckily, my previously canceled booking at Hotel Ordo is available again. Armin is staying there, too.
Looking back, the day feels like I moved through it half-asleep. There was no structure to anything I did. I had to remove the panniers, take both bikes apart, fit everything into the bike bags and boxes—making sure to keep all battery-powered devices and spare batteries aside for hand luggage.
We’d learned that lesson the hard way during the GBDuro race across England and Scotland—what happens when airport staff find boxes labeled with “suspicious and hazardous contents.”
A huge thank you to Armin, Jos, and Markus, who took over most of the work for me.
My contribution consisted mainly of running around in a panic, more or less aimlessly, getting nothing done. My mind was simply too full of everything else.
There wasn’t even any tape left — Jos kindly lent me his.
Every now and then, I glanced over enviously at the riders still arriving at the finish. That could have been us…
At some point, everything was finally packed away; all the bags had found their place in the boxes. The luggage was set aside with what looked like hundreds of other bike cases. I had no idea how all of them were supposed to make their way to Bishkek.
Then, back to the hotel for a short rest — I needed to be at least somewhat awake for the Finisher Party that evening.
I spoke with Hermann again. He said he was doing well, that he had no pain, and was sorting things out with the insurance companies. The European one had backed out completely, hiding behind the fine print — no coverage for competitions!
But it looked like the AVS insurance would step in. Maybe there’d even be a way to get him home soon so he could have the surgery there. In the meantime, he had been filling out and sending off one questionnaire after another.
At least he was being well cared for — mostly thanks to Marina, who was staying in the room next door with her mother and was looking after him too. How kind of her. That was a huge relief for me.
But now, another problem loomed: would I even be able to fly home with both bike cases?
Both were booked, yes, but Pegasus Airlines only allows one per passenger. Maybe one of the Silk Road riders could take the second one for me? Katrin could pick it up from the baggage carousel in Munich.
I kept pestering poor Armin with my endless questions — sorry, I must have been far from pleasant company.
The Finisher Party passed by in a blur. I wasn’t in the mood to celebrate at all. I ate something, exchanged a few words with other riders we’d met along the way, and then slipped out quietly.
The walk back through the dark neighborhoods of Bishkek didn’t bother me — my thoughts were just as dark. My bed at my hotel (Hotel Ordo – very nice!) is waiting to me …
The next morning, after a delicious breakfast, Armin and I caught the transfer bus to Bishkek.
There were three buses in total, and all the bikes were loaded onto two trucks — stacked four layers high. Oh dear…
The drive along Lake Issyk-Kul seemed endless. And in Bishkek, the wait for a taxi felt just as long.
Armin had ordered one through the Yandex Go app to take us to our hotel — the Smart Hotel, where Hermann and I had planned to spend two relaxing days together. The app was clearly overheating, with three busloads of people all trying to order taxis at once.
Somehow, I managed to drag everything — a heavy bike case, an awkward bike box, one large backpack and a smaller one — from the taxi up to my room.
It’s already early evening by the time I can finally set out to visit my Hermann.
First, I have to figure out how to use this new app — everything’s in Russian. Thankfully, I can change the language. I’ll be using this app a lot over the next few days.
Usually, it works like clockwork: enter the destination, choose the car’s size or price range, and the app shows me the license plate of the nearest available driver. I can then watch on the map as the little car icon moves closer. When I spot it, I wave like crazy so the driver notices me.
But what exactly is my destination? I only have an address written in Cyrillic. Nothing is easy today…
The hotel staff help me out. Even when the car drives past and I’ve already paid but have no taxi, the lady at the reception calls the driver for me. On the second attempt, he finds me.
How difficult it is to be in a foreign country without knowing the language — even the translator app can’t always save you.
Then the next shock: I get out at a construction site. Where on earth is the hospital?
I walk along the front of the building and pick the first entrance I find. I call Hermann — he’s in room six. The hallways are empty; there’s no one around to ask. It’s Sunday, and everything seems to be running on low staff. Finally, a nurse appears — she’s wearing purple scrubs. She leads me to my husband.
He greets me from his bed with a big cheerful smile. That, I wasn’t expecting.
A warm reunion. He tells me again what happened, then I look around, puzzled. Hermann is still wearing his dirty clothes. Has no one helped him get clean things from his backpack? His hands — unwashed.
There’s a toilet in the hallway, yes, but no soap, no toilet paper, no towel — not even in the room. Everything feels rather makeshift, impersonal.
The next day, I’ll learn that it’s common here for each patient to have a family member staying with them — someone who actually lives in the same room, gets a bed and meals, and is responsible for taking care of everything the patient needs.
By the end of my stay, I’ll leave this place as a fully trained “assistant nurse.”
When I later return to the hotel, my head is full of thoughts.
How must Hermann feel here — alone, helpless, exposed? Why is no one looking after him? And I wasn’t even there those first two days!
A quiet sense of guilt creeps in: I can leave — but he has to stay.
The entire next day I spend at the hospital.
As soon as I arrive, I notice something is different: the hallways are full of activity.
Ah, Monday — the weekend is over.
I meet doctors, nurses, the cook, and most importantly Marina, who’s staying in the room next door with her recently operated-on mother.
She had taken such wonderful care of Hermann when no one else was around — so kind of her!
She tells me that she’d overheard him speaking German on the phone, got curious, and decided to “visit” him. She’s from Bishkek, but married to a man from Frankfurt, and lives in Abu Dhabi.
Thank you, Marina, for looking after Hermann, for helping him with everything he needed, and for bridging the language gap. Your support meant the world to us during such a difficult time — especially when it came to financial matters!
And Marina also reassures us that we were lucky to end up here — the doctors in this clinic are truly excellent in the field of joint replacement surgery.
By now, it had become clear that Hermann could be flown home — but not before September 4th, due to bureaucratic delays.
That meant the operation would have to take place here, on-site. Waiting any longer wasn’t an option.
And that’s when the real problems began.
The insurance company would cover the costs, yes — but transferring the money was another matter.
Cross-border payments by IBAN weren’t possible, and we couldn’t withdraw that much cash.
Surgery only after payment!
With Marina’s help, countless calls with the insurance company, and the tireless support of Katrin — who did everything possible from her end — things finally started moving.
The operation was scheduled for Tuesday morning.
They showed us the prosthesis: a standard American model made of titanium.
After the surgery, Hermann would have to spend one night in the intensive care unit.
That evening, I went back to the hotel. My plan was clear:
The next morning, after breakfast, I’d move into the hospital with all our belongings.
There was no point waiting at the hotel during the surgery anyway.
I caused a bit of confusion when I showed up at the hospital with my big bags — but the operation went well.
I was allowed to visit Hermann right away in intensive care, where he’d stay overnight for monitoring.
Dr. Kazakov appeared with a plastic container holding a small red, round object.
I joked, “Ah, now I understand why the hospital soup tastes so good every day…”
We were given a room with a private bathroom, and I made it as homey as I could — unpacking all our things, even the two bicycles.
I brought back everything that could make life a little easier:
five-liter bottles of water, fruit, vegetables, cookies, instant coffee, jam, honey, yogurt, juice, and more — all carried from a supermarket two kilometers away.
Marina had already arranged towels and soap, thank goodness.
For a washbasin, I used a cut-off ten-liter water bottle.
Bit by bit, our room began to feel almost cozy.
We would spend the next eight days there, each following the same quiet rhythm:
wake up, wash with the improvised basin, rinse and hang clothes to dry over a bike case-turned-clothes rack, wrap Hermann’s legs with compression bandages, doctor’s rounds, then breakfast.
After that, I’d head out shopping — two kilometers down a busy street and back again.
Lunch, a short nap, a brief walk in the university garden, coffee (hot water from the hospital kitchen), evening rounds, dinner, then sleep.
The routine was broken only occasionally — mostly for me.
I had to buy crutches and took the chance for a quick stop at the Osh Bazaar.
But I couldn’t really enjoy it; my thoughts kept returning to Hermann.
Later, I looked for an apteka (pharmacy), then a MegaCom store to extend my Kyrgyz SIM card — which, of course, wasn’t where Google Maps said it would be.
Stress, nothing but stress.
In the days that followed, my Pegasus flight had to be postponed twice because the details of Hermann’s repatriation kept changing.
And what about our bikes — could I take them with me?
To be sure, I went to a Pegasus office in town, and to my relief, the women there were wonderfully helpful.
They managed to arrange a special exception so I could bring both bicycles.
In fact, everything with Pegasus went surprisingly smoothly —
quite the opposite of my chaotic experience with Lufthansa and Brussels Airlines on our trip to Rwanda back in February.
Everyone at the hospital was kind and helpful.
Dr. Iygilik Kazakov, the surgeon who operated on Hermann, not only did an excellent job but turned out to be a wonderful baker, too. The morning after the surgery, he brought us two generous slices of streusel cake for breakfast. And when one of the beds was missing its sheets, he simply fetched some himself and made the bed. Where else would you see something like that?
The cook was also very sweet. Every morning she brought us, alternately, semolina porridge, oatmeal, or rice pudding; for lunch and dinner there was usually a hearty vegetable stew with a bit of meat, or a big bowl of borscht—the bright red beet-and-cabbage soup, unfamiliar to us but truly delicious.
The days passed quietly. In a small shop nearby, I discovered a pack of playing cards — a welcome bit of variety.
Otherwise, not much happened. From the second day on, Hermann was told to get up — first with a kind of walker, later with the crutches I had found. On the first attempt, his circulation gave out after just a few steps, and he collapsed into the arms of Dr. Nuraly Arzymatov and me. After that, things went smoothly.
Then came the long-awaited news: the flight home was confirmed — September 10.
The air ambulance would no longer be needed; Hermann had been given a business-class seat on Turkish Airlines.
Dr. Pedro Morales Rivera came by the day before to go over all the details, and at one o’clock in the morning, Hermann’s journey home began.
Marina had arranged a taxi for me, and right after midnight, Mirbek was waiting punctually in front of the hospital. He had been instructed not to leave until I was safely through security — so kind of him! I was deeply grateful; with all that luggage, I would have been quite lost on my own. Having someone who could help in Russian at check-in made everything much easier.
In Munich, my daughter Katrin, who works there, was waiting and took care of everything else.
And then, finally: home.
Hermann was taken by ambulance to Brixen, where he stayed for two more nights in the hospital.
The odyssey was over.
Now, about eight weeks after the accident, Hermann is recovering well — already walking with his ski poles and even doing short bike rides again, for now still on his e-bike.
I wish him with all my heart a full recovery, so that he can soon return to the sports he loves, freely and without limitation.
From the bottom of my heart, thank you. ✨
I would like to express my heartfelt thanks to everyone who supported us after Hermann’s accident during the Silk Road Mountain Race in Kyrgyzstan – especially to those who were there for us in person.
Your help, your presence, and your kindness meant the world to us. 💛
My sincere thanks also go to everyone who kept us in their thoughts or reached out through social media. I truly hope I’m not forgetting anyone. (Names listed in the order they appear in the video)
Katrin and Lukas Leitner (our children), the unknown shepherd and his family, Greta and Alessandro, Armin Brunner, Nelson Trees, Nelson’s family and crew,
Dr. Maxim Ten, Marina (a very special thank-you!!!), Nikolai, Markus Brigl and Jos Voorbraak, #orthopedics_endoprotez, Dr. Sovetbek Kumushbekovich Kazakov,
Dr. Iygilik Kazakov, Dr. Nuraly Arzymatov, the hospital team, Dr. Pedro Morales Rivero (TAA), Mirbek, Tyrol Air Ambulance, Alpenverein Südtirol, Orthopedics Department, Brixen Hospital, Gislar Sulzenbacher, Christoph Hofer, Gerold Siller, Toni and Ralf Preindl, Hansjörg Jocher, and Melitta Goller🙏
