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my video day 3 and 4:
Day 3, Mon, 18.08.
200 km / 2,100 m ascent
We were treated to a wonderful breakfast by Dana as early as 3:30 a.m.—so kind of her! Many thanks again. I hadn’t slept particularly well, having “coughed myself to sleep,” and I hope I didn’t disturb the other guests.
By 4 a.m., we were on the road. Through the kitchen window, I could see that the family had made all their sleeping spaces available for guests, laying out bedding for two adults and probably four children right on the kitchen floor. We were extremely grateful.
I had planned to cover the 30+ kilometers of asphalt to Sary Tash the day before, but to make up for it, we set off early. This was fortunate, because later in the day the road would be busy, and the wind shifts direction. For now, we met very few vehicles. Strong wind blew down the mountain slopes, and I had to grip the handlebars tightly several times to avoid being knocked over. It was quite cold, and dawn was breaking as we reached the start of our first climb today—the Taldyk Pass (3,615 m).
I had approached this climb a little too lightly, thinking that cycling up asphalt on the “Pamir Highway” would be easy. What awaited me hit me more or less unprepared. What a crazy road.
The name “Pamir Highway” should have been a warning. By morning, truck traffic was increasing. Two-axle monsters puffed up the steep road; some overheated or broke down, and we cyclists had to squeeze past them in the oncoming lane. “RRRÖÖÖHHHHHRRR…”—the roar and gasping of approaching trucks always made me dart onto the gravel shoulder. At the same time, strong gusts threatened to blow me back onto the road. What kind of inferno had I landed in?
Higher up, fog began to roll in. Trucks overtook trucks, cars overtook cars and trucks—often in very risky maneuvers, with us cyclists in between.
At least the wind was easing. But I could only hear the trucks approaching, from both front and back. When they met at my level, it got extremely tight for a bicycle. Not exactly my favorite situation. Memories of horror from my ride to the North Cape, Northcape4000 (2022), flashed through my mind—terrible encounters with giant trucks near Lake Balaton and Riga.
My fear was compounded by my physical state. Since the start of the climb, I had felt weak, and my coughing had worsened. Was it the steepness of the road at over 3,000 meters above sea level? Or was my infection not fully recovered? My pulse raced, even though I was inching upwards slowly. Fear and exhaustion fed each other.
Finally, I reached the top. A “pass photo” and then immediately downhill, to avoid cooling off. It had started raining, and it was cold. The following climb revived my spirits.
A line of trucks slowly approached. A blue Hyundai van, following behind (there are countless ones in Kyrgyzstan, alongside millions of old Audi 100s), suddenly swerved to overtake the line but luckily noticed me and returned to its lane. There would have been no room for all three of us on the narrow road. It happened so fast that I continued with trembling knees. That could have gone badly. You can see the situation in the video (minute 1:12).
Finally, we reached the absolute highest point, shrouded in dense fog. The descent was treacherous. At first, I could barely see my handlebars through the fog. How far could the trucks and cars see?
The trucks descended slowly, brakes squealing, every curve a battle against gravity. We cyclists had to pass, taking risks as the trucks were sometimes estimated to be a quarter of a kilometer long. We had over 2,000 meters of descent ahead, all on asphalt—first in countless switchbacks, then along a river valley to Gülchö. After 150 kilometers, we would finally reach food and supplies.
Luckily, we didn’t have to wait long. I was getting hungry. Like a mirage, a building appeared on the left with a large sign and many bicycles leaned against it.
Like a gun, I aimed the translator app’s camera at the sign: Yak Restaurant. With several trucks and cars parked outside, we decided to go in, warm up with chai, and eat. The menu featured only meat dishes—yak meat! We set aside our reservations, because with so many guests, cyclists, and truck drivers, the food had to be freshly cooked. The yak soup was amazing, and the tea delicious.
The next roughly 80 kilometers to Gülchö flew by; cycling was smooth—if only the trucks weren’t there. I watched a tense moment ahead: Hermann was being overtaken by a truck with a trailer, another truck came toward him, and a flock of sheep grazed on the opposite side. “Stand firm,” Hermann stayed on the asphalt, probably thinking the road was for everyone… The truck didn’t slow and came just a hand’s width from him, forcing him to move onto the gravel shoulder. Seconds later, the massive vehicle was where Hermann had been. Everything happened in seconds, captured in the video (minute 2:45).
The valley offered much to see. The Kurshab River had carved deep into the valley, bordered by vivid red cliffs. The mix of deep green vegetation, from shrubs to small forests, small settlements, colorful houses, and blue mosques with golden domes, was breathtaking. Children lined the roads everywhere. Free-roaming animals added danger—for them and for us.
Another multi-axle truck overtook yet another. I saved myself on the shoulder, tricky when transitioning from asphalt to gravel at nearly 50 km/h.
Finally, Gülchö. From afar, the shop was visible, surrounded by loaded bikes. Every step in front of the store was occupied; food and drinks in all varieties were everywhere. Starving and thirsty, we dove in. What we didn’t eat, we tried to stow on our bikes, not an easy task. Gülchö was likely the last safe place to shop before the Blue Caravan, 270 kilometers away. There’s another possible resupply point 140 km ahead, just before a 30-km push section, but it was uncertain if anything would remain. Worst-case scenario: three days without shopping.
By early afternoon, we still had to climb the Suuk Döbö Pass: about 30 kilometers and 1,000 meters ascent, then descend to Ulay-Talaa. The village, three kilometers off the main road, had accommodations and shops, which we skipped.
We cycled up a seemingly endless village on asphalt. Every third house had children, greeting us loudly with “Give me Five!” It felt almost like Race Around Rwanda in February.
Hermann’s gears misbehaved again—like the day before in the Alay Valley. Grinding noises, screws turning, adjustments failing, until finally it worked again. Worries about the gear cable snapping were real. We considered a “mechanic crash course.”
The asphalt gave way to gravel, leading through vast alpine pastures where mostly horses were kept.
The final meters to the pass were steep. I pushed my bike, relieved when Hermann came to help carry it. Exhausted and coughing, I felt no shame.
The following descent was mesmerizing. On the slopes, hay was being cut and transported by horse. We had wondered why horses pulled strange wooden frames, and finally understood when we met one heavily loaded with hay. Research revealed these frames are called “Arpa.” A flat on Hermann’s rear wheel slowed us down. When we stopped to pump it up, a Kyrgyz teenager joined us. Communicating in English with translator assistance, we politely declined his invitation, as darkness was approaching. Reinflating didn’t work, so we replaced a tube a few kilometers later—one less in our supplies. Hopefully it would hold.
We continued. Twilight approached in the valley. Asking a local, we learned there were no accommodations nearby.
Cycling into the dark, we looked for a suitable bivouac. We found a flat grassy area on a small slope, apparently a pasture. Dogs barked in the distance. We unpacked and pitched our tent. The kettle went on, a Chinese instant noodle soup simmered, and the barking grew louder. A light flashed across the meadow. Someone was coming. What to do? We approached to explain we wanted to camp.
It was a Kyrgyz man, sounding rather irritated. Using a translator app, we tried to communicate that we’d be grateful to camp on his meadow. Words kept coming. I couldn’t tell if he was angry. A light appeared on the road below—one of our group, who spoke Russian, tried to interpret, repeatedly interrupted by the herder. Apparently, he only wanted to help, offering his yurt for the night. Very kind, but his tone was not friendly. We had to return to the tent while our food simmered. Uneasy, I couldn’t sleep peacefully, worrying he might return. The dogs barked repeatedly, unsettled by our presence.
Day 4: Tuesday, 19.08 – Ulay Talaa to Kok-Art
110 km / 2,400 m ascent
Early in the morning, at dawn, we set off again. Everything is quiet at the neighboring yurt. We feel bad that we couldn’t communicate with the herder.
Today’s plan is to ride as far as the start of the push section, which means a seemingly endless, gently rising river valley.
In Karasu, we find a water point by the roadside with running water. It seems fresh and clean, probably from the drinking water network, but we play it safe: we filter it and add a chlorine dioxide tablet.
For the next few kilometers, I don’t think much—it’s likely going to be a mixed ride: mostly gravel, some asphalt, through an endless valley, until the hike-a-bike section begins.
Wrong. Soon the asphalt turns into an impossible rutted track—worst “washboard” ever. Progress is agonizingly slow. Steep climbs, slow descents. The river runs far below, the gravel road clinging to the hillside.
A heavily loaded cyclist comes toward us. He’s already been on the push section but says it was nearly impossible, so he turned back. No pushing—carrying required. Oh dear, what awaits us?
Today, the headwind is fierce. On the flat stretches, it feels like hitting a wall. The valley becomes wilder and more desolate. Beautiful? Not really. Quite dusty.
Hermann had analyzed our progress the night before, noting six hours of standstill during the day. I probably didn’t have that much, though I had to stop sometimes. Dressing, undressing, and eating on the move aren’t my strong suits either. I’m not fully fit, but I feel we’re making decent progress.
By mid-morning, the sun is relentless in the cloudless deep-blue sky. A thought nags at me: by this time the day after tomorrow, there may be no shop along the way. The “Blue Caravan” at the Chinese border is the big goal—it’s where we’ll finally complete the 30 km push-and-carry section. In this legendary caravan, we’d get warm meals, drinks, and maybe even replenish our sweet supplies. Apparently, every rider is greeted by name.
The son of the “house” monitors the event online. After refueling at the blue caravan, we’d be ready for the next 110 km to CP2. And then, after tackling the legendary, extremely steep “Old Soviet Road,” another hundred-plus kilometers to the next settlement, Ak-Muz. My mind races: from Gülchö yesterday at noon to Ak-Muz is almost 480 km, about four days without resupply… oh dear, maybe we underestimated. I quickly calculate what we still have in our packs. We won’t starve, but rationing will be necessary.
Still lost in thought, the gravel turns back into asphalt. A small settlement appears—and… cheer! A tiny shop with a small dining area. Two friendly older Kyrgyz women run it and even serve coffee—instant, but delicious, like my beloved latte macchiato with double sugar. Even better: we can buy Chinese instant noodles, which they prepare for us in hot water. Unexpected, but welcome! Refueled, we move on—but not before a little photo session with the two funny ladies, as insisted.
The valley becomes lonelier. The green river oasis below is beautiful. Fewer cars pass, kicking up dust. By evening, we should reach Kok-Art, where, according to the organizers, there’s a small shop. I suspect my premonition may be right: the shelves might be empty.
The heat builds, shade is scarce, mostly only at river level. The road constantly dips toward the river, then rises again. On one fast descent, a flash of white catches my eye. Ohhhh! A naked man’s backside… and another. Clothes lie by the roadside. What’s going on? I hear a splash, and in an instant, I think: “I want to do that too!”—jumping into the cool water.
It takes a little while to find a suitable spot after a bridge. We push our bikes down, strip off, and plunge into the stream. Ice cold! I quickly wash head to toe with the multifunctional cloth I always carry (one for me, one for the bike), then do some laundry. The wet clothes hang neatly on my bag, turning my bike into a mobile clothesline.
But we must move on. The valley narrows again, flanked by cliffs, then widens. Ahead, another small village, Say-Talaa, hides a tiny shop behind a high wall—but the bikes leaned outside give it away. Another shopping break? Probably wise to take what’s available. Inside: cold drinks. I try a sugar-heavy energy drink, shivering. Watermelon too.
The three of us share one enormous melon. Nothing tastes better. Sitting on the shop steps, indulging. I must have looked exhausted, because suddenly the owner woman appears, taps my shoulder, and hands me a plate. Warm rice with meat… I share with Hermann. With mixed feelings, we try the meat. The portion is big enough to give Tobias some as well. So kind of her! She waves off my attempt to pay.
In the blazing sun, we continue. The mountains and their colors distract us. The kilometers crawl, but time passes. Another village, another house with bikes outside. Another shop? Hermann says we don’t need anything; I move on.
Now the road gets tough. My tires plow through deep gravel and large stones. I slow so much that there’s no wind. Hunger returns—maybe a Snickers? Not interested, especially since the heat melts them in the wrapper.
Where’s Hermann? I find the only shade for miles, spread out on the ground mat, cut some bread and cheese. Hermann contributes some cola. He had stopped anyway at the last “bike meeting spot.”
The supply points today are surprisingly close together. Unexpected help. Only about 10 km to Kok-Art now, with the very last chance to top up our Snickers stash before the Blue Caravan the day after next.
Suddenly, Hermann brakes and stops abruptly. A flat! Again. Rear tire. What now? Install a new tube? We try injecting sealant, even into ultralight tubes. Doubts abound, but worth a shot. A few grams lighter. Looking ahead: the tire holds to the end, though we might not! Drama… We approach fast.
At the village entrance, the “gateway” common to these settlements, we meet Konrad from Poland, who lives in the Netherlands. Small world—he sends greetings from Agon, a fantastic photographer I met during Race Around Rwanda in February. We’ll see Konrad several more times in the coming days.
A bit off to the side: the usual bike cluster, where anything is available. The last announced shop. Anyone relying on it for the next two or three days would be in trouble. We barely get a bag of chips—no more, not even water. Oh dear!
Outside, by the roadside, I spot a hand pump. I ask if the water is drinkable. Yes, but the boy in the shop must come with a tool to open it. Grateful, we fill bottles and hydration packs. Time to go. Night is approaching. Can we reach the start of the push section? About 30 km to go.
The road climbs to a wide plateau. Stunning panorama. We’re not alone—several riders started with us. Paths are narrow—only two tire tracks—and increasingly rough.
A steep climb; two riders try a valley path but have to turn back. The sun sets, temperatures drop. Unfortunately, we must descend the hard-earned meters on the other side of a gorge.
Rough terrain. I push my bike a few meters. Then flat stretches across wide grassy plains. Eventually, two horsemen appear, watching us critically, not looking friendly. Unnerving!
My mind flashes back to early editions when a rider was stopped by two armed horsemen—robbed? I don’t remember. At dusk, imagination plays tricks. I just want to set up camp somewhere nearby.
Better to push on until they’re out of sight, gaining a few more kilometers. Almost fully dark, we find a suitable spot. Camp set up quickly, water for Chinese noodles brought to boil, eaten in our sleeping bags. After four days, every move is automatic. Soon, we fall into deep sleep.
