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Friday, August 22, 2025
Kel Suu (CP2) – Naryn
132 km / 1200 Hm/ 8:40:10 moving time
my video day 7:
CP2 in the morning.
The night in the yurt was restless. It got cold after the stove went out, someone was snoring loudly, and I kept coughing—or trying not to—so as not to wake everyone up. The Old Soviet Road haunted my dreams. How on earth was I supposed to haul my 25-kilo bike up there?
When I wake up, almost everyone is already gone. Only Lukas is stirring at the same time, peeling himself out of the layers of blankets. Later today I’ll realize that I had actually followed him for a week earlier this summer—as one of Nelson’s dotwatchers during the Hellenic Mountain Race.
I’m looking forward to breakfast. But no luck—power was already out the evening before, and the problems mean there’s only a minimal version of the meal we booked: lukewarm soup, no bread, a few cookies. And the next bit of bad news: snacks and water for the road will only be available “later.”
So we have to make do with whatever’s left stashed in our bikes. The water is stale, having sat in the hydration pack since yesterday. The chlorine dioxide tablets we used to treat it don’t exactly improve the taste.
As the sun rises, we set off. A few minutes across the plain, and then the climb begins.
Looking back down at the white yurts strung like pearls along the river, with the snow-covered mountains across the valley, is wonderful—it helps distract from the grind.
The name Old Soviet Road is, in itself, an ironic exaggeration—because with gradients of nearly 30%, it’s hardly a road anymore. It’s an adventure trail. And the two kilometers uphill go like this: stretch arms, push 25 kilograms of bike uphill, squeeze brakes, take two or three baby steps beside the bike, release brakes, push again, repeat. After countless repetitions, a short break—to admire the view (excuse!), take a sip of water (excuse!), or take a photo (also an excuse—no one needs that many photos).
At the steepest part, Hermann comes to help. I promise to push, but I’m sluggish today and can’t even keep up behind him—he’s that fast, or I’m just that slow.
Finally, we’re at the top. I can even smile. A small second climb lies ahead, then a long descent, then miles of mostly flat terrain before the gradual ascent to Kynda Pass. Then another long downhill. One last hill after that, and we’ll reach Naryn.
I’m thinking only of the next descent. It’s amazing—down singletrack trails. The bridge over the river below would actually have been the planned endpoint for the previous day, but since we miscalculated, we’re about three hours behind schedule. I don’t mind; in Naryn, the halfway point of the SRMR, hotels await. After that—up to CP3, supposedly three days later—there’ll be nothing. Supposedly. Hermann will stick to the plan; I probably won’t…
The scenery over the next few hours is still lovely at times—some areas remind me of alpine pastures, others are just dusty.
Lunch stop.
We cook Chinese instant soup, finish the rest of our bread, a can of sardines in tomato sauce, and sguschyonka—sweetened condensed milk. Quite the “delicious” combination! Ha!
I even dig up a coffee sachet from the depths of my bag.
The many animals offer some distraction—yaks, horses, sheep, goats, and, unbelievably, camels. I spend hours doubting whether they’re dromedaries or camels. My brain can’t handle much by this point, not even simple calculations—or deciding whether the dozens of two-humped creatures staring at us are camels or not. (Two months later, my research confirms: yes, they were camels.)
Soon after, a huge red STOP painted on a rock: military checkpoint at Kynda Pass. Passport control. Ten minutes later, we’re allowed to continue.
Then comes the winding descent. Oh no! In one of the first switchbacks, a truck lies across the road, its hayload scattered everywhere. The driver and his three passengers sit at the roadside. Luckily, no one is hurt.
The long downhill follows, much of it terrible washboard surface—no chance of speeding up, we’re rattled to bits.
At the valley floor, it flattens out. Passing cars constantly kick up dust clouds that swallow us whole. I can’t be bothered to dig out the neck scarf I packed for this purpose, so I end up swallowing half a kilo of dust. Occasionally, we can escape the washboard and dust by riding a grassy path parallel to the road.
Sixty kilometers of slow progress. Yesterday we had a tailwind; today it blows in our faces all day. The wide, sunbaked valley stretches on endlessly. Nothing much to see. It’s brutally hot, incredibly dusty, hunger and thirst grow stronger—it’s simply miserable. The dust doesn’t just test our patience; it’s killing our drivetrains too. We’ve run out of chain lube—hopefully we can buy some in Naryn.
Finally, in the distance, a few silhouettes of houses—Ak-Muz, a village I’ve been longing to reach. Now to find the magazin (shop). Ah yes, over there—where several dusty, loaded bikes are leaning. As always, the meeting point for hungry, thirsty bikepackers.
The last proper shop was back in Gülcha—about 400 km ago. There was a small one after that (the nice ladies on Day 4, and that little melon-and-rice shop I mustn’t forget), but since Kok-Art, nothing.
This mini-market is tiny, with limited stock—but then, the woman behind the counter brings out a tray of still-warm Russian pirozhki. They smell divine, so we grab them immediately. Only after biting in do we realize they’re filled with potato and meat. We’re so hungry, we couldn’t care less.
Joao from Portugal gifts me half a jar of pickles. I swear I’ve never tasted anything so good. My body must be craving salt—or just something not sweet. I’m so grateful for that half kilo of pickles that I promise to mention him in my report. So here you go, Joao—I kept my word.
Next to me sits Lukas, the same one I woke up beside this morning (no worries—Lukas on my left, Hermann on my right). I tell him I’d followed him during the Hellenic Race for a week. He laughs and says he’s probably the oldest participant—63. “No,” I correct him, “Hermann’s a year older, and I’ll turn 63 in October.” So yes—apparently there are quite a few crazy old folks like us…
One more mountain to climb—33 km left to Naryn, where our lodging should await. After a day of swallowing dust, we’re craving a shower—which means a hotel, definitely. Also, there won’t be any accommodation options before CP3, as the loop into the wilderness begins. Another good excuse: it’s halfway! Time to celebrate.
A quick search on my “Naryn favorites” list, and I impulsively book the Altay Village Hotel in Tash Bashat. Looks nice.
But first, the final climb—and after Ak-Muz, it’s gravel again, more dust to swallow. Eventually, we hit asphalt—the highway leading straight to the Chinese border and the Blue Caravan.
The asphalt has its price: heavy traffic into town. Fast cars overtaking trucks overtaking other cars—and we’re, as usual, right in the middle.
Just before Naryn, I check Google Maps to locate our hotel—and then it hits me. With trembling fingers, I open the app. My suspicion is confirmed: the hotel is 30 km away from Naryn. And not only that—it’s also 30 km off route. How did this happen?!
The wooden truss bridge itself was swept downstream, where it still lies today. Photos of the wreck had circulated before the race—“Wow, did you see that?”—but no one seemed to realize the tragedy: the truck driver had drowned in the raging brown floodwaters.
According to reports on Instagram, journalist Idyris Isakov had only recently published a piece warning that the bridge was in critical condition. The driver’s body was recovered, but—as so often—official action came too late. The Tosor Pass connection to Issyk-Kul will likely remain closed for a long time.
📺 YouTube video of the bridge collapse
So our route had changed—and the hotel I booked now lay far off course. Great. And, according to Booking, it wasn’t refundable. But luck—and kind people—were on our side again: the hotel staff graciously agreed to cancel it free of charge. A thousand thanks!
Arriving in Naryn, we start looking for a place to stay, wandering a bit aimlessly. When we finally reach the guesthouse we’d booked, Hermann and I agree—no way are we staying here. Booked five minutes ago, cancelled five minutes later. Nothing’s going smoothly today… what next?
We’d earlier received a restaurant tip: Grand Khan Tengri. It’s attached to a hotel, but shows no rooms available on Booking. Too bad. Still, I try calling. And—cheers!—they have a double room left. I promise to be there in 10 minutes. And, as luck would have it, it’s only about 100 meters from the guesthouse we just cancelled.
And what a hotel it is—brand new, classy. We look totally out of place, dusty and ragged as we trudge into the lobby. The housekeeping room (for bike storage) is already full, so our bikes must stay outside. But we’re assured the entrance is under video surveillance—“nothing will happen.” Let’s hope so.
🔗 https://grand.khantengri.kg/
We head into town to restock—since for the next three days, there will once again be nothing, and this time absolutely nothing.
Then a quick shower and straight to the restaurant. A fun group gathers again—Tobias, Markus, Jos, and Konrad. Unfortunately, the waitresses take their time before taking our order, and by then, the kitchen has closed. Annoying! At least Hermann and I get lentil soup; the others go hungry.
Falling asleep on an almost empty stomach isn’t so bad, I tell myself.
Tomorrow we’ll make up for it at the breakfast buffet. No early start—(almost) sleeping in. We’ve earned it—halfway!