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And here it is at last — the dreaded hike-a-bike day.
As if we hadn’t already done enough “hiking with bikes” over the past few days…
Do you want to get an impression first? Here’s my video from Day 5:
Day 5 – Wednesday, August 20, 2025 – Kok Art – Suyek Pass
40.29 km / 1,361 m / 8:04:16 moving time
After packing up camp, we set off. Oh, and not to forget the speedy breakfast — there’s not much left to eat anyway. But tomorrow, we’ll surely be treated like royalty at the Blue Caravan…
As usual these past few days, we roll off into the moody dawn light.
I slept poorly; the challenge of today loomed vividly before my mind’s eye.
Twelve kilometers later, after crossing the last stream — this time over an actual bridge (!) — the two-track road narrows to a single trail, and even that one is sometimes barely visible.
At least we’re not alone. A couple dozen heavily loaded cyclists are moving within sight ahead and behind us. There are even little traffic jams at the river crossings.
Soon after crossing an alpine meadow, things get serious. The trail climbs steeply — brutally steeply — winding upward. Below yawns empty space, and far down the valley the torrent twists and roars. Slipping here is not an option.
As the path pushes upward through scrub pine at what feels like a 40% gradient, Hermann comes toward me and takes my bike. I push from behind, wheezing like an old steam engine, barely able to keep up. Are these the lingering effects of my infection? It can’t be the altitude — we’re “only” at about 3,000 meters.
The route remains varied, that much is certain. A few meters rideable, then another exhausting push — sometimes even downwards. Some slopes are so steep that carrying the bike seems easier.
My newly improvised carrying system finally gets its field test. Fixing the straps in just the right place so the bike hangs level is fiddly work. Done at last. I slip into the harness, sit down in front of the bike, and try to stand up — no chance. The roughly 25 kilos press me right back into the ground.
I somehow manage to stand, only to be pulled off balance immediately — toward the steep drop. I let myself fall back down. Rescue comes from above: Hermann has been watching my struggle and hoists the bike onto his back. I fold up the carrying system; getting dragged down a slope is not on my list today. A bit further on, I see another rider having similar troubles — in the middle of a river crossing. What if you fell there and couldn’t unclip from the straps in time? Too dangerous. I pack the whole thing away.
And there are countless river crossings. The path keeps switching sides of the valley. The streambed is strewn with large, slippery boulders — one wrong step and both rider and bike would vanish in the torrent. Often the water is knee-deep, the current strong.
On earlier days I’d still change into sandals for crossings — not anymore. Too complicated and time-consuming. I’ve also found a way to get the bike across without the wheels dipping into the water — a crucial trick, as I’ve learned. Once any part of the bike is submerged, the current takes hold and I can’t resist it. Getting swept away here is absolutely out of the question. Being soaked through is the lesser evil; it’s not exactly warm up here anyway.
We often help each other. Everyone at the crossings faces the same struggle.
Between rivers, a few rideable meters appear here and there, but it’s never really flat. Even gentle inclines leave me breathless, and I prefer to push. Rocks litter the narrow trail. Funny enough, the path looks harmless on my video footage — anyone watching would wonder why we’re not riding. But all day long, there’s no one else in this valley — only us riders. Absolute solitude.
Now the valley narrows. The river roars a hundred meters below. The trail hugs a cliffside, narrow as a ledge. One section has collapsed and is patched with a single plank and a few stones. There’s no room for bike and rider side by side. Hermann helps, pulling my bike across. Phew.
Then the valley widens again. The grassy slope beneath me drops steeply; a few meters farther on, it ends in a vertical rock face. I can hear the river far below but barely see it. I’m pushing again, like everyone else, when I hear a faint whistle behind me — someone wants to pass. I lift my bike up onto the slope and step aside. The way is clear. Out of the corner of my eye, I see something unbelievable: the rider intends to ride past!
In a split second, I spot a rock on the trail. Everything happens too fast — the bike jolts, the rider flips forward, tumbles several times, then there’s a loud crash. His red bike, buoyed by its side bags, floats away downstream and disappears around a bend.
In shock, I scream: “Nooooooo!”
Then, a few meters below, I see two hands gripping the edge of the precipice, moving — he’s climbing up! What luck — a fall of ten meters onto the rocks below would’ve been fatal. The man, wearing only a shirt and shorts, scrambles back onto the trail, runs down the valley, then returns to us. Hermann, Tobias, and I stand frozen.
The fallen rider tells us to continue, to keep racing. He walks with us until we reach a small side creek cut into the slope. There it’s less steep, and he climbs down, intending to follow the riverbed back to his bike, which must have washed up on the rocks further down. I call after him, “Take care!” — and then he’s gone from sight.
What now? Move on? We discuss for a few minutes, then continue. But the incident stays in my head all day. I drift through the landscape like in a dream. What if he collapses from the cold water? Nobody but the three of us saw what happened, or that he went down the slope. If he can’t retrieve his bike and gear, he has no warm clothes. It’s around 20 kilometers back to the last village, Kok Art.
We should’ve waited. The guilt gnaws at me the entire day. What if he didn’t make it? By the time the organizer or a dotwatcher notices his tracker has stopped, hours will have passed — and rescue could take half a day more.
Only the next day do I hear rumors that he recovered his bike and even continued the race.
If you’re reading this, dear cycling colleague — I owe you a thousand apologies for leaving you alone in such a dangerous situation. That’s not what you do.
Still lost in thought, I push on. Minutes later, the next accident. A small crowd. Two shins roughly bandaged, bleeding through. They ask if I have first aid supplies. I dig into my bag and hand them what I can spare, hoping we won’t need it ourselves. Dimitrii, the injured one, can’t tell if anything’s broken.
What happened? The steep trail ahead had been obliterated by a minor landslide. A “detour” climbs sharply through dense scrub — riders above us can be heard groaning and cursing as they drag their bikes upward, slipping back, getting tangled in the bushes. Dimitrii had tried to follow the faint traces of the old path instead and slid down toward the river with his bike. Sergey, his teammate, helped him climb back up — and even caught the whole terrifying moment on video.
You can see it in Sergey’s YouTube film:
Шёлковый путь или как Серёжа и Дима в Киргизию ездили.
“The Silk Road, or how Sergey and Dima travelled to Kyrgyzstan“ (part1 – part 2)
We even appear briefly in the footage.
A look into the future: Team 308A and B made it to the finish. We didn’t.
Enough drama for one day. It’s already afternoon. At this pace, we’ll never reach the Suyek Pass before dark — yet our plan was to descend the far side before nightfall to avoid sleeping above 4,000 meters.
I’m exhausted after every steep climb. On top of the haunting thoughts about the accidents, I’m too drained even to be angry at my GPS device. It switches to autopause every time I push or carry my bike slowly uphill — so the recorded distance and elevation gain are way off. It shortchanges me by 13 kilometers and over 500 meters of climbing today.
But the ordeal is far from over. The trail keeps crossing the river — down, up, down, up. Occasionally a gentle meadow allows a short breather. On a rock ahead lies yet another bleached skull with massive, spiraling horns — like a mufflon’s. But mufflons don’t live in Kyrgyzstan. According to AI, it must be a wild sheep, an Argali or Marco Polo sheep. Creepy nonetheless. Hopefully not a bad omen.
The valley narrows again; for several kilometers there’s barely any trace of a path. The stream is smaller here but wilder, a tumbling mountain brook. Every few hundred meters we have to wade across. The ground is rough and rocky, and we navigate mostly by instinct. The sun sinks, shadows grow longer, and the temperature drops. My wet feet feel like ice blocks. Over and over we wade through water. Farther up, I spot something white — it looks like an enormous mushroom cap. Closer inspection reveals an old avalanche blocking the creek, its snow remnants still hanging on. Progress grows ever harder; boulders to climb, treacherous slopes above. What if a rockslide breaks loose now?
Then, suddenly, the narrow gorge opens into wide grassy slopes. Far above, we can just make out where the pass must be. Several hundred meters of climbing still ahead. Finally, I warm up again — partly because I’ve swapped my wet socks for dry ones and slipped my feet into plastic bags. A brilliant trick against the cold. Though spending the entire day with wet, freezing feet will surely take its toll in the days to come — something I don’t yet know. My cough has already returned.
The final 200 meters of ascent are brutally steep; Hermann comes back down to carry my bike.
We don’t linger long at the top — just a quick photo with the pass sign. It’s stormy and bitterly cold up here.
A straight, steep trail leads down — smooth at first, promising fast progress. Too good to be true: within minutes, the same old story — rocky path, uneven ground, dusk settling fast. We rattle and push downwards in near-total darkness. There’s nowhere flat enough to pitch a tent. I dread how long this will go on. After such a day, we desperately need rest.
At last, far below, I see several lights flickering faintly. They barely move — must be other riders setting up camp. We aim for them. Reaching a somewhat level patch, we join them. Soon our tent is up, and a pot of instant noodles bubbles on the stove — after the ignition system took forever to spark, perhaps due to the altitude.
It’s so cold that I pile on every layer I have before crawling into my down sleeping bag.
But my last thoughts are of the day’s events — those awful accidents — and I pray that every fallen rider now lies safe and warm in their own cocoon of sleep.
Sleep comes quickly.
What the coming days will bring?
If they continue like these first five… oh dear.
A first milestone the next day will be the Blue Caravan, about 65 kilometers away, followed by Checkpoint 2 – we urgently need to restock our supplies.
