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August 2025
Actually, just a few days before departure, everything was flashing red: “Gabi, don’t go to Kyrgyzstan!” A urinary tract infection, a stumble on the stairs resulting in a badly bruised thigh muscle—or maybe even a small muscle fiber tear.
Then, during the four-day acclimatization ride in Kyrgyzstan, I came down with an infection, fever, and cough. Shortly before the start, all symptoms seemed to have eased. Despite keeping the option in mind to return to Osh in case of worsening, I went to the starting line with mixed feelings.
Because what lay ahead of Hermann and me was not to be underestimated: almost 2,000 kilometers with nearly 30,000 meters of elevation gain across Kyrgyzstan, starting in Osh and finishing in Karakol. At times, hundreds of kilometers through extremely remote, hard-to-reach terrain, high passes (just over 4,000 m), several days riding between 3,000 and 4,000 m, freezing nights, many sections of pushing and carrying the bike, countless river crossings, very few resupply options—that’s the Silk Road Mountain Race.
Its organizer, Nelson, is known for claiming his events to be among the toughest in the world. At the Atlas Mountain Race (2023), we already got a “taste.” The high dropout rate speaks for itself. This year, a little more than half of the 235 participants made it to the finish: 131 compared to 104 who “scratched” sooner or later.
I call it a race, but I see it more as an adventure where you’re supposed to cover a set course unsupported, against the running clock, with no outside help. There’s nothing to win except the honor of having made it …
Some “safety” comes from the fact that everyone must carry a GPS tracker. On the platform dotwatcher.cc, the “world” can digitally follow where their “dots” are, what rank they hold, or whether they’re being caught or overtaken by the virtual snail that marks the time limit. In an emergency, you can “simply” press SOS and help will be sent. That help isn’t always so “simple,” as we were to experience firsthand. For us, the “race” ended in drama. Stay tuned!
But first we had to get there… An adventure in itself…
More details here
Night & Day 1
my video night & day 1:
Friday night/Saturday: Osh – Daroot Korgon
216.63 km / 3,990 m
After Nelson’s final words at the briefing, we set off with heavy police escort. Hermann and I in the middle of it. We had decided during registration to start as a team—with all the pros and cons. That means we must finish together, otherwise our names appear on the finisher list with DNF: Did Not Finish.
Our motivation (mine after some early doubts and hesitations) is high, and the excitement eases after a few kilometers in the flow of nearly 250 participants, streaming out of Bishkek and its outskirts to the cheers and applause of spectators. Then the field stretches out. We head into the countryside, through smaller settlements. High-fives here and there; the kids seem to be betting with each other on who collects the most. Suddenly, a teenager points a spray can at me … Luckily, the expected paint spray doesn’t come. But I’ll remember it days later.
Asphalt turns to gravel, and we are repeatedly engulfed in the dust of passing cars. It gets lonelier and hillier. The sun sets behind orange-red clouds, twilight comes. On the distant horizon, the red blinking lights of riders ahead create a mystical atmosphere. Then darkness. Knowing that there won’t be a chance for resupply all the next day, I long for a shop—also to fight my creeping drowsiness with some Coke. We plan to ride through the first night. My water is running low. Close to midnight, might something still be open? And yes—at the next village, a brightly lit building with a colorful sign reading магазин (shop). The many bikes lying outside are a clear sign. The shelves are almost empty, but there’s still water and Coke.
We needn’t have worried—well into the night, shops along the route are open. We stop twice more, once for bread, cheese, and cookies to stock up. Instead of small coins as change, I get a little wrapped white ball. Later comes a long tarmac descent. I calculate and realize I still don’t have enough water. A tiny family-run shop takes us in, serves us pomegranate juice and water. They listen in disbelief as we tell them our plans. We nearly have to force them to accept payment.
Now it’s properly off-road. Alongside a narrow stream, we follow a dusty track. The valley narrows, but I only realize when the almost full moon rises behind the cliffs. The road grows rougher, boulders at the side, no houses for a long time. Time for a snack. I unwrap the white ball—ah, probably white chocolate. Delicious? I bite down. Arggghhh! It tastes like an extremely ripe cheese. My palate revolts and ejects it immediately. A sacrilege, no doubt …
Later research: Kurut – Kyrgyz Raffaello!
Traditional kurut are small white balls of dried curd and salt. A beloved snack of Kyrgyz people, adults and children alike, eaten year-round. Linked to their nomadic roots: milk was turned into quark, salted, dried, and stored for years. For European palates, however, the strong taste takes some getting used to.
I’ve got 106 kilometers on my GPS device. A few minutes later, still the same, and the elevation gain doesn’t change either. The map on the GPS also stays the same. What’s going on? I reload the route, turn the device off, nothing! At some point I just leave it switched off. So, I ride without it and hope Hermann doesn’t leave me behind. Riding in the dark without the route—oh dear! I keep asking him again and again where we are, what the elevation profile ahead looks like. Not nice, not knowing what’s coming up, especially in the dark.
After 125 km, past 2 a.m., sleep overwhelms us both. Like others along the track, we decide to find a spot for a power nap (or longer?). Under the bright moon, it’s not easy to find a flat place, but eventually, we settle beside a big boulder, perfect for leaning the bikes, laying gear, and later, serving as a breakfast table.
Tent? No—we make do with mats and sleeping bags. Falling asleep under the Milky Way straight overhead is magical.
The alarm buzzes far too soon. Strictly speaking, we had a furry alarm clock: a donkey nearby braying loudly at the first passing rider. Quick—boil water for an instant coffee (luxury for the first night) and our Jentschura Morgenstund breakfast. Strengthened, we ride on. Well—yes, I still feel good, and Hermann of course is rock solid.
Soon we reach the entrance to Surmatash National Park, right after an adventurous bridge crossing—its steep construction unlike anything at home. In the reserve, mountain lions are said to roam, though in summer, with plenty of food, they’re unlikely to bother bikepackers. At the park entrance, we even find water. Out come the filter and purification tablets. But where to put the extra two liters? For now, I strap the bladder to my handlebars and hope it holds. The river we follow is a murky brown—definitely not drinkable.
In the morning I give my GPS device another chance. I turn it on. Unfortunately, nothing has changed—navigation, map view, everything is frozen. I decide to do a reset. How did that go again? No internet, so I can’t ask Dr. Google for help or use AI. I remember helping Gosia once on her Australia crossing to get her device working again, so I check our WhatsApp chat. Bingo! Turn the device off.
“Hold down the two buttons at the bottom of the device (LAP and START/STOP). Turn the device on (press the power button briefly and release).” Okay, I’ll do that!
Result: All loaded routes are gone, along with all the painstakingly created POIs from weeks of preparation. Without internet, I can’t reload the routes onto the device, so I ride without guidance. Luckily, there aren’t many junctions out here at the end of the world on the way to the Koy-Djul Pass and the Shiman-Bell Pass. And I do have the map again, but riding blindly like this is not very motivating. I have no idea what’s ahead, when the climbs are coming, how steep or how long they are… It’s crazy how dependent one has become on electronics, even while cycling. Again and again I ask Hermann for information, pestering him the whole day. Later on, it would have been nice to see the curve layout on the descents.
With the reset, I also lost my familiar screen layout. Annoying! And on top of that, a new function appeared that I can’t switch off: as soon as I have to push the bike and go very slowly, Auto-Pause kicks in. That means the device thinks I’m standing still and doesn’t count any kilometers or elevation gain anymore. And that happens very, very often today. Today’s route and the ones over the next few days can’t be uploaded to Strava like this—how would that look, with several kilometers and especially so many meters of climbing missing? So apparently I’m dependent on social media too…
The 170+ km climb from Osh to the first pass was supposed to be “manageable” with moderate gradients. But no—repeated descents mean even steeper climbs afterward. The valley narrows, cliffs closing in, forcing steep ramps. More and more hike-a-bike. The promised 5 km of pushing are long exceeded before the “official” section even begins. The first icy stream crossing soaks my feet.
Then the valley opens into a stunning alpine landscape. We pause in the shade of a lone tree at 2,500 m: menu of choice—Kyrgyz bread (delicious!) and sardines in tomato sauce. I mix electrolyte powder into my water, but the salty-bitter taste soon disgusts me. By the day’s heat, I already associate it with struggle. From now on, I can’t drink it anymore. I drag those sachets for days before giving them away. If only I had simple apple juice and bread drink—heaven! (I admit, I’m a hoarder, always carrying “just in case” snacks: gummy bears, apples, nuts, and more cross one mountain pass after another.)
The push section under the blazing sun is brutal. My bike weighs maybe 25 kg. Switchbacks, steep, cars no longer possible. Eventually, it’s rideable again, but too steep for me, so still a lot of walking. Up to the Koy-Djul Pass, 3,800 m—altitude also taking its toll. The lingering cough from my infection reminds me I’m not fully recovered, but it doesn’t stop me. Hermann waits patiently at the top, even comes down to take my bike and push it faster than I can walk.
Then, the reward: a marvelous descent through multicolored mountains. A small climb to Shiman-Bell Pass, then more downhill. Stunning views, past yurts and huts, then a narrow valley. Cows with dogs (thankfully peaceful) indicate a settlement nearby.
Kids greet us, but two boys fling wet clay at me instead. Suddenly, I’m plastered in mud of the same color as the houses. My bike, my bags, everything. I brake hard, furious, but of course, the culprits vanish. I try to wipe off the mess. A fellow rider offers me watermelon in sympathy. Hermann returns, puzzled at my state.
Not much further and we’ll be in Doroot Korgon.
But before that, an unexpected effort: the last five flat kilometers we face headwind—or rather, a head “storm.” I can hardly make any progress once I “fall” out of Hermann’s slipstream.
In town we want to look for a hotel or guesthouse. Dusk has already set in. First, we restock our supplies and water, then we ride around looking for accommodation. Without success. The hotel on Google Maps is closed, people we ask along the way send us from here to there, mentioning the name of a guesthouse and saying there should be a sign. But we don’t find anything; the signs are in Cyrillic script, which I can only barely decipher, if at all. We stand there helpless.
Then another rider mentions a tip from Vadim: a hostel nearby opening just for us. Perfect! We’re the first to be welcomed by a friendly older woman. We search for a restaurant but are too late. By the time we return, the hallway is packed with bikes. We cook two Tactical Foodpacks—at least we don’t have to carry them tomorrow. A shower and a soft bed feel heavenly after the nearly sleepless night and exhausting push kilometers.
I feel good. No more fever, maybe just a hoarse voice and an occasional cough. Turning back? No way—not over those two passes again!
We also have a head start on the snail… The next morning, it will only be at the pass from the previous day, and about 70 participants are still behind us.
Only in the evening can I upload the routes again and finally be independent. I think if I had been alone, this might have been a reason to scratch. I do have a second option for navigation on my smartphone, but that eats up a lot of power, and that’s not unlimited either.
