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Hermann’s story…
I had decided the afternoon before to shorten the route because my infection had flared up again. That resulted in our DNF, but it couldn’t stop the drama… What if I had decided differently…
Video day 10, 11 and 12:
Day 10 – Hermann
142.35 km | 1,732 m elevation gain | 10 hours moving time
The day began early — at five in the morning I was already having breakfast, the first warmth of tea in my hands while the night slowly faded outside. An hour later, with the first light, I packed up my bivy and set off into the final section of the lonely loop.
The terrain was rougher than expected: swampy stretches alternated with almost pathless sections, the bike dancing over muddy tracks. By late morning, I met Damian from Poland, who was just packing up his tent. We rode together for a while — two small figures in the vast emptiness of Kyrgyzstan.
Around midday we reached the river crossing leading to the military checkpoint. The organizers had warned that the bridge was impassable, so we had to wade through. Damian was a little ahead when I suddenly saw him coming back toward me — drenched and visibly shaken. The current had knocked him over; he’d barely managed to save himself and his bike.
Together with Tobias, who had caught up by then, we searched further downstream for a better spot. Eventually we found a shallower crossing — still knee-deep, but calm enough to shoulder the bikes and get across safely.
After the control at the checkpoint, the route climbed again — the sun now high, the wind relentless in our faces. The ascent to Suyek Pass, with its 750 meters of climbing, dragged on, but this time it was sunlight, not snow, that accompanied me. From the top, over 3,000 meters high, the land stretched out below — wide and golden.
The descent began in pure joy — rough gravel, but fast, the bike dancing over stones. Then the road flattened, the headwind returned, and every pedal stroke demanded strength. The nine kilometers to the Kumtor road — the same stretch Gabi had tackled yesterday in a snowstorm — felt endless. Heavy trucks thundered past, leaving clouds of dust and diesel.
The Kumtor road itself, the access route to the massive gold mine, wound through the Barskoon Valley in countless switchbacks — 2,000 meters down to Lake Issyk-Kul. A spectacular backdrop, but by afternoon the valley already lay in shadow, and the cold crept into my fingers.
Halfway down, the Gagarin Monument suddenly appeared — the stone face of the cosmonaut carved into a cliff. A surreal greeting from another time.
Later, I met a few riders who were a day ahead of me, still grinding their way up the last seven kilometers. Only then did it hit me: tomorrow I’d be riding up exactly that same stretch.
Just before Tamga, I ran into Gabi — radiant — and together we rolled into Checkpoint 3. After days of cold, tents, and wind — finally, a shower and a real bed. We stayed at the Guesthouse Inspiration with Olga.
The next morning began with a bit of Kyrgyz improvisation: the guesthouse gate was still locked, so I simply climbed over it to get breakfast at the checkpoint. When I came back, Olga had opened it — smiling, she pointed to the hidden key tucked into a niche in the wall. If only I’d known that earlier …
Day 11 – Hermann
97 km | 3,212 m elevation gain | 12 h 37 min moving time
Tosor Pass, hike-a-bike, Kumtor road ascent, Barskoon Pass, night at 3,800 m
After a long, hearty breakfast with a few other riders, I set off alone. Gabi wanted to rest up and take it easy along the 90 kilometers by Lake Issyk-Kul — planning to catch up with me in two days.
The first ten kilometers rolled by easily: asphalt, construction zones, a deceptively gentle start to the day. Then the route turned onto the Tosor Pass road — 2,400 meters of climbing, averaging seven percent. I knew what that meant: a long, grinding ascent into thin air.
But the gradient was surprisingly steady, almost rhythmic. The landscape opened up — green slopes, sparkling streams, sharp peaks capped with white glaciers. I felt strong, steady; my body was working well. Only the final kilometer demanded surrender — so steep I had to dismount.
At the top, at 3,890 meters, the wind hit hard, but the view was breathtaking. I didn’t linger long — the anticipation of the descent was too strong.
But the reality hit quickly. The trail down was rocky, rough, demanding total focus. Before long, I turned left, following a faint track into the valley floor. Faint tire marks appeared, climbing gently — but I kept having to dismount. The terrain was unpredictable: boulders, scree, streams.
What had been described as an “easy section” turned out to be an endless sequence of hike-a-bike slogs. For hours I lifted, pushed, and balanced the bike over rocks, waded through icy streams, stumbled over moraine remnants. At one washed-out spot, a single misstep could’ve sent me tumbling down. I cursed loudly into the still mountain air. Nelson had warned us: this part would be brutal.
After nearly six hours of toil, the valley finally opened up — a proper track appeared, and a few hundred meters later it merged with the Kumtor road. There I met Jos and Markus — exhausted comrades-in-suffering, swearing as loudly as I was about that hellish stretch.
The sun was sinking, the air cooling fast. Ahead lay another climb — 700 meters up to the Arabel Plateau, over 3,700 meters high. I knew it would be a cold night. I could have stayed below, in one of the old containers where many riders camped, but I chose to continue. The temperatures were still tolerable, the traffic light.
Two hours later it was dark. Only the beam of my lamp danced over the gravel as I gained height. One truck rumbled past — then silence again. At the top, the plateau was icy. I pushed on a bit further, hoping to find a yurt — and, miraculously, one appeared, glowing by the roadside.
I knocked, but it was already full — cyclists packed tightly, wrapped in sleeping bags. So I moved on. A few kilometers later I found a flat spot near the road. Exhausted and freezing, I set up the tent quickly, inflated my mat, and put on every layer I had.
Once inside the sleeping bag, I wanted a warm meal — but the piezo igniter on my stove failed. No spark. Apparently the system didn’t work in this cold or at this altitude. No lighter either — Gabi’s warning voice echoed in my mind. So I mixed the dry meal with cold water. It tasted surprisingly okay — maybe just hunger.
The night was bitterly cold — minus six degrees, my Garmin showed inside the tent. I dozed more than slept, wrapped in the quiet flapping of wind over the plateau. At half past five I started packing. Outside, darker and colder still. Breakfast would have to wait — until the sun finally found me.
Gabi’s day 11 – Hell Ride from Tamga to Mikhailovka, about 100 kilometers
I had spent Day 10 doing laundry, tending to my bike, and stocking up on supplies. In the afternoon, I’d ridden a bit up the Kumtor Road to meet Hermann. We’d had dinner together at CP3, and I listened—somewhat enviously—to his tales of adventure from the past day and a half.
After Hermann left the B&B, I began packing my things. Then came a cozy breakfast with Olga, the hostess, and another participant who was also dropping out—perhaps Michael… from the UK. Olga had been a teacher too, about my age. Now her life revolves around the house and garden, open to all guests.
Then it was time to say goodbye. The first kilometers took me away from the lakeshore, over rough, neglected gravel tracks—no one lives out here. I’m alone on the road. A strange feeling, because unlike during the race, there’s no one behind me. I feel a bit uneasy.
Barking dogs.
Oh dear! One suddenly leaps out of the bushes, gallops across the road, and vanishes. I’m relieved when I finally reach the Kumtor highway—though it’s far busier than I’d like.
At the lakeshore, I turn east and ride along Lake Issyk-Kul. At first, it’s fine—the view of the lake and the mountains opposite is beautiful. But the closer I get to Karakol, the heavier the traffic becomes. The ride turns rather nerve-racking.
The road is patched and full of holes, and one construction site follows another. The road is narrow, and I often have to move onto the gravel shoulder—it seems the main lane is reserved for motorized traffic only.
And what a parade of vehicles! The entire history of the automobile seems to roll past me.
Whoever can, speeds through the 40 km/h construction zones at over a hundred. Some cars look as if they might fall apart at any moment. Just now, a small truck came toward me, belching a huge cloud of black smoke. Out of the haze suddenly emerges a Lada—on my side of the road. I swerve onto the shoulder just in time. That was close.
I have to keep an eye on the traffic behind me and at the same time watch what’s coming toward me. Rusted wrecks overtake other rusted wrecks, never mind that there’s a cyclist approaching—apparently not a common sight here.
Many of these cars would have been scrapped decades ago in the West. Paint peeling, dents everywhere, lights smashed, mirrors shattered, side windows missing. They rattle and wheeze as if on their last breath.
Shock absorbers are long gone—everything shakes and squeals. The favorite car seems to be the good old Audi 100, along with countless ancient Ladas ready for the junkyard.
People transport absolutely everything on their cars: animals, huge hay bales, farm machinery sticking out several meters.
And there appears to be no limit to how many passengers can fit inside. Sometimes I count ten faces staring out, probably amazed at the sight of a woman loaded with bags on a bicycle. How they all squeeze in there is beyond me.
If I make it off this highway alive, I’ll consider it a success.
Eventually, the nightmare stretch toward Karakol is behind me. I turn left onto a quieter road—finally some peace. The hotel isn’t far now. To my left I can sense the lake, to my right the stunning mountain backdrop.
The Hotel Asfandyar is itself partly under construction, but I’m warmly welcomed—apparently the only guest—and served tea and cookies on the terrace.
Then I ride the two kilometers to the next shop and treat myself to a grand dinner: yogurt, bread, cheese, chips, carrots, cucumbers, pickles, and multivitamin juice. A truly refined combination. I even still have some Chinese instant noodles. You have to spoil yourself sometimes.
Later, the hostess surprises me with delicious manti—juicy meat-filled dumplings. So that’s what had been smelling so wonderful all afternoon.
I wonder where Hermann is right now. Good thing he doesn’t yet know what awaits him tomorrow—he’ll have to ride the same last 50 kilometers of road I just did. I’d rather push my bike through rough terrain than do that again. Or is there something in between?
Relaxed, I turn off the light and snuggle into the warm blankets.
Wherever Hermann has pitched his tent tonight—it must be over 3,500 meters up, and definitely freezing.
I look forward to the next day, reunited with my Hermann, and to the final 300 kilometers we’ll tackle together the day after.
Day 12 – Hermann
122 km | 493 m elevation gain | 7 h 54 min moving time
Hike-a-bike over Jukuu Pass, descent to Issyk-Kul, reunion with Gabi
I had slept reasonably well despite the freezing night, waking again and again as the wind shook the tent. Still, I felt content — I’d made it to the plateau. At 5:30 I crawled out of the bag, fingers stiff, the air crystal-clear and biting. The thermometer showed –6°C inside — colder outside for sure. I packed up and set off around six, skipping breakfast. That could wait for the sun.
After about eleven kilometers on the broad, dusty Kumtor road, the route turned left. There I met Jos and another rider already sitting in the sun, having breakfast. I joined them, grateful for the sight of a working stove — and borrowed their lighter to finally enjoy a hot coffee.
Re-energized, I continued over a gentle high plain. The ground was soft, the tracks faint — more pushing than riding. The vastness was stunning: a silent, wind-swept expanse framed by snow-covered mountains.
Only the crunch of tires and the faint rattle of gear broke the stillness.
Then came the climb to Jukuu Pass. The pass itself was barely visible — more a shallow saddle that suddenly opened up and dropped steeply into a valley. The descent was anything but rideable: loose stones, deep ruts, sudden drop-offs. A fall here would mean more than just scrapes. So again: push, carry, balance. The bike felt twice as heavy as usual.
The lower I got, the rougher the terrain became. Again and again I thought, Now I can ride again! — only to dismount a few meters later.
The path was littered with boulders, scree, and stream crossings. For hours I pushed carefully, step by step, fully focused.
Finally, near a small lake, the trail eased. A short climb, then at last some rideable stretches. The sun was high now, and the strain of the morning began to fade.
I found my rhythm again — pedal, roll, breathe. The valley opened up, green meadows spreading wide, dotted with huge boulders as if a giant had tossed them there for fun.
I grinned — finally, flow again.
The descent stretched for 50 kilometers — a dream of dust, wind, and freedom. After so many days in cold and altitude, the warmth below felt almost unreal. The valley widened, the river glittered beside me, and soon the first village appeared: Saruu.
Almost every rider arriving at the same time stopped there. A tiny roadside shop became a pilgrimage site — chocolate, Coke, chips, bread. I devoured everything sweet I could find and took my time. Refilled and recharged, I felt reborn.
But the day wasn’t over yet: about 50 kilometers still to go, 23 of them on the busy main road. The sun was merciless, the asphalt full of potholes, every passing truck rattling the bike.
Out here, riding defensively is survival. I stayed as far to the edge as possible, adrenaline high, senses sharp.
Finally, turning off onto a quieter side road, I could breathe again. Fields slid past, the light shimmered in the heat. I was drained — body and mind. Then, like a gift, Gabi appeared, riding toward me.
We nearly fell into each other’s arms before rolling together to her hotel. It was only 4 p.m., but I was completely spent.
For the first time since the start, I felt truly empty.
A long shower, a bed, silence. I drifted between waking and sleep until dinner. Even then, my eyes could barely stay open.
It was a quiet happiness — the fatigue, the warmth, the feeling of being back with Gabi. Then I fell into deep, dreamless sleep.
