A Sleepless Start

Let’s begin by rewinding a little. Those who are keen readers of the blog (thank you and well done to you) may remember that our time in Nepal ended with a rather epic 22 hour bus journey (meaning we lost a night of sleep) followed by a bout of food poisoning (meaning we lost another night of sleep), but it seemed our sleep deprivation was not to end there, oh no, we had more of that joy to come.

Our late night flight out of Kathmandu meant we knew we would be getting little sleep, but we had hoped that a 9 hour lay-over in a random airport in the UAE would provide us with some time to catch up on some much needed shut-eye. We are used to sleeping in a different place every night, so we figured we would find a quiet corner of the airport and set up our rollmats and sleeping bags and be as comfortable as ever, but as we emerged from our first flight, our eyes readjusting to the bright glare of the airport illuminations, we realised this was going to be harder than we thought. We somehow seem to have found the busiest and loudest airport we’ve ever been to. Every seat was occupied, every inch of the floor between seats was covered with people laying down. There was no quiet corner, there was no under-the-stairs to hide in. And, wow, the noise, it was like a cattle market with everyone shouting to one another, everyone playing their phone music or TikTok videos at full volume –  whether they were watching the viral rubbish or were somehow managing to sleep through it, they still had it playing at full volume. Total craziness.

Safe to say, we lost yet another night’s sleep, and emerged in Almaty feeling like we were in the trenches of an ultra endurance race facing our fourth day without any sleep. We rebuilt the bikes basking in the sun that poured through the windows of Almaty Airport arrivals hall, letting the light and warmth recharge our batteries as though we were solar powered. By 4.30pm we were rolling out of there, looking forward to a short 25km across the city to our wonderful WarmShowers host. It’s was a beautiful, blue sky winters day, and the combination of the magical snow covered ground, traffic that obeyed rules and logic (a novelty after being in Nepal) and a seemingly endless view of the Northern Tien Shan Mountains refilled our energy supplies better than any sticky sports gel ever could.

But an hour into our ride and it felt like someone had pulled the plug on all my reserves. I was crawling at a glacial pace along the busy snow-edged roads, with my mind not truly engaged. I soon noticed that we were very much climbing upwards. Endlessly climbing upwards. And the sun was setting. And the temperature was plummeting  – a reminder of why there was still a foot of snow on the ground. Despite it being March, there was no denying it was definitely still winter in Kazakhstan. It turned out that our short 25km across the city was in fact a 400m climb, which we usually wouldn’t think too much about, but after three nights of no sleep it felt monumental to me. My eyelids felt heavy as the darkness of night crept in, the bright headlights of cars were just a blur and trying to keep up with Ted from one set of traffic lights to the next felt like an impossible task. I was definitely in the trenches of my own, self-inflicted, uniquely created and totally unnecessary ultra-endurance race, where the finish line was nothing but a warm bed.

A Winter Fairytale

We finally made it. It took us a lot longer than we thought, but we were warmly welcomed by our incredible WarmShowers host, Blair, and soon collapsed into the heavenly soft, pillowy, white bed she had prepared for us. It was like a dream. I felt like I could sleep for a hundred years and on waking the next morning, it felt like I had. More snow had fallen over night – thick, deep, fluffy snow, the kind that meant a snow-day during childhood, the kind that absorbs all the sound but reflects all the light, the kind that heavily blankets every branch of tree – it was magical and added to the feeling that I had awoken from a fairytale sleep.

We had also arrived in Almaty on International Women’s Day, which is a huge celebration and even a national holiday in Kazakhstan. Women are traditionally presented with flowers and gifts, as a sign of thanks and appreciation. The following evening, whilst out having dinner with Blair, her friend Andy joined us and sure enough he came bearing tulips for both of us!! What a treat – I can’t remember the last time anyone bought me flowers, definitely not in the last two years that’s for sure. As we devoured mountains of delicious food at the Georgian restaurant, bedecked with twinkly fairy lights, the snow started falling heavily again outside. Our evening ended with our feet crunching on the deep snow as we left, and I took a moment to glance up, watching the dark sky full of huge fluffy snowflakes falling towards my face, my tulip safely in my hands, and not even the fleeting worry of how on earth we were going to survive cycling in this weather could shift the magical fairytale feel of it all.

We set about getting on with preparations for the next part of our trip – Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan (the Stans) – an area of the world we were very much looking forward to exploring. There was route planning to be done, food stores to be replenished, weather forecasts to check, cooking fuel to re-buy (as you can’t fly with it), extra warm weather clothes to source and, of course, Ted had to rebuild my front wheel as the bearings in my front hub had failed – again!  (I’m keeping my fingers crossed that it is third hub lucky!). We had the Son dynamo hub replaced under warranty, again, but the German manufacturer would not post the replacement outside of Europe. Thanks to a stroke of luck and the kindness of my wonderful sister-in-law and her work colleagues in Kazakhstan, we had the hub waiting for us in Almaty. Ted cracked on rebuilding the wheel, but as the day progressed I slowly began to feel worse and worse. The tell-tail signs of a heavy cold setting in and a hacking cough developing – the consequences of three nights with no sleep and sharing re-circulated airport air with thousands of other people and their germs – Bleugh!

Our planned three days in Almaty turned into a week. I wasn’t getting any better and spent most of my time in bed or on the sofa, but the weather had improved and we couldn’t stay with Blair forever, as much as we would have liked to. So we set off, not really knowing how my lungs would fare, not knowing whether we had the right number of layers on, not knowing how much of our planned route would be closed due to snow, and not knowing whether the extra pair of mittens we had bought to put over our usual gloves would be enough, but we’d give it a go.

Born of Cold and Winter Air

Our first few days in Kazakhstan were cold. Beautiful, but cold. Even in those areas where there was no snow on the ground, the wind was an icy blast and had a fierceness to it that made us take it seriously. Our Buffs were permanently pulled high over our faces to warm the freezing air as we breathed it in, to protect our cheeks from the frost-nip that was sure to come from exposing our skin. We learnt the frustration of trying to do all small fiddly tasks whilst still wearing our gloves. We constantly reminded one another to ‘keep wiggling those toes’. We tried in vain not to sweat, knowing that any extra moisture on our clothes would lead to more of a frozen chill, even inside all the layers. Our tea flasks became a true life saver once again, and helped defrost us from the inside out with every precious sip. Cold became our new state of being.

During the days, the landscapes of the open Kazakhstan steppe, with the backdrop of the snow covered Tien Shan mountains was an impressive sight. We were cycling through vast, barren scrubland, the earth still frozen solid. There was no sign of the lush green grasses that carpet the land in the warmer months. It was as if the whole place was frozen in time, just waiting for the warmth of Spring to arrive. And with every day, we crept a little closer to the looming Tien Shan mountains, closer to their imposing presence. We knew our route had us heading into those mountains and with every glance up towards their peaks the feeling of excited nervousness grew within us.

The main sign of life in these first few days was the wild horses that were dispersed across the vast landscape, their presence adding to the majestic mountain views. Occasionally, the horses would run alongside us, and there was nothing that could stop the sense of pure, wild freedom that rose up within us as they did. It’s as though, in that shared moment, we too were untamed and unleashed, as though we released that part of us that is forever held by the reigns. If only I could have bottled that sense of joy.

The only other people we saw during the day were the local horsemen/ shepherds. Watching them lead to an appreciation of how humans are part of nature in these lands, do not dominate it, but are part of it. The riders so naturally appeared and disappeared into the landscape. It was a humbling experience to observe how they understood and felt each contour of the land like it was part of them. To watch how this mode of transport, this way of life, is so innate highlights how we have become so disconnected from nature in the modern world. There is something so effortlessly cool about the horsemen – maybe it’s that slight lilt of the horses movement that gives them that swagger, or maybe it’s their silence that gives them a kind of mystique or maybe it’s their faces, worn and weathered, that tell a thousand stories without the need for words. It was the same with the gauchos in Argentina, the huasos in Chile and the cowboys in America – like there is a thread running between them all, making them more connected than they ever will know.

But each day, as the golden light of dusk approached, the Kazakhstan steppe became a different place. Where the winter cold was bearable and manageable during the daylight, it was a different story at night. The temperature fell with the setting sun. The time of day felt as though it was measurable by the drop in degrees. As 4pm rolled around it felt as though our leisurely days became a race off-route to find a small village and ask around for a guest house, a home stay or a floor to sleep on before the sun set. The cough I had developed in Almaty still wasn’t shifting, in fact it was getting worse. Breathing in the cold air all day everyday was aggravating it, so having somewhere inside over night to rest my lungs became pretty important. Thankfully, the friendly helpfulness of locals meant we ended up staying in an Apple Orchard office, a shop owners dining room and a homestay with a fierce-looking farmers wife. It meant we could avoid the worst of the cold, and also allowed us to experience some of the Kazakhstan culture we otherwise would have missed out on. The never-ending refill of the teapot seemed to be of key cultural importance and I for one am pleased this is something we experienced. I mean, I didn’t enjoy having to pick the googley meat out of the mounds of pasta (‘I don’t eat any animals’ here is only understood to mean – I only eat a little bit of meat) and I could easily pass up the traditional sweets, jams and chocolates offered for breakfast, I can remind myself that I really don’t need another serving of the warm, delicious, fresh flatbread but resisting yet another cup of tea is absolutely, totally, wholeheartedly beyond me!

The Snowline

Climbing ever closer to the border with Kyrgyzstan, the snowline of the mountain peaks was getting nearer and nearer. We knew that the road over the border between Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan was supposedly kept open all year but at 2000m elevation, at the tail end of winter, we also knew that the conditions can change quickly. We kept an eye on the weather forecast and timed our crossing the pass into Kyrgyzstan, on the one day gap between two weather fronts. We were lucky. There was a fresh thick layer of snow on all the peaks surrounding the pass, the road itself was busier with horses than it was vehicles, the border guards were snoozing when we arrived, there was some serious snowdrift across the road, but it was open and we passed through with no problem – another stamp in the passports. 

But as we sat eating our luxurious lunch of bread and tomatoes in the shelter of a bustop, the reality of riding here at this time of year really sank in. With the snowline sitting at around 2000m and the snow on either side of the road being about one meter deep, it was clear that a lot of the route we had planned in Kyrgyzstan was not going to be rideable, not even push-able. As we descended the pass, approaching our first turn off the main road, the decision was made for us. The side-road we were supposed to take was covered in snow, nothing but a road sign indicating that a road even existed under the thick blanket of white. It was disappointing. We had dreamt of the mountain passes of Kyrgyzstan for years, but we resolved to make the most of it, and head to the lower regions around the vast Lake Issyk-Kul instead. It turned out to be an excellent decision!

A Fools Spring

As we descended, lower and lower, the slow dripping of warming snow became a trickling of meltwater, the occasional brave chirp of a bird became competing melodies of birdsong, the lone evergreens were soon accompanied by silver birch, their branches tipped in buds of green. We dared to take off a layer, and then another – enjoying the light of the sun on our faces, letting it kiss our skin, the warmth seeping down to our bones, bringing with it big smiles. The first taste of spring. As though a world asleep was finally daring to peep open an eyelid, as though it was daring to dream about awakening again. A fools spring, but nonetheless one we would enjoy in the moment.

Dark Winter Nights

We spent our time skirting around Lake Issyk-Kul braving the freezing cold temperatures at night in the tent, and enjoying the warmth of the sun during the day. We camped on white sand beaches along the lakeside, enjoying the views of the snow capped peaks on the North edge of the lake, watching impressive winter sunsets over the water before retreating to cosy up in the tent. We had each beach campspot all to ourselves – which would be totally unheard of in the warmer months.

The scenery was impressive, the weather was that perfect winter combination of bright blue skies and crisp cool air, the road was bumpy but much quieter than we thought – Idyllic. But underneath it all, behind that Buff I still pulled high over my face, between the smiles that never quite reached my eyes, I was struggling.

My cough had developed into a chest infection, the fluid creating a rattling, gurgling rasp that caused me to heave. The constant stream of fluid from my nose, which pooled and froze in the snood over my face was a pretty grim reality. The antibiotics didn’t seem to be acting fast enough. The cold air, day and night, combined with the uphill climbing over the pass had inflamed my asthma, giving me a persistent dry cough to add another layer to my cough. The freezing temperatures had kept me awake for hour after hour in the tent at night and no amount of extra layers was able to take off the chill that felt as though it was deep in my bones. I hadn’t felt my toes for days. I felt exhausted and weak. No amount of sleep or food seemed to be making any difference. No amount of deep breaths seemed to give me enough oxygen. Despite doubling my inhaler doses, I was out of breath and crawling along even the flatest of roads by the lakeside. It got to me mentally. Stopping for a rest day felt like giving in – it was, after all, only a stupid cold. The slower I went, the more exhausted I felt, the darker things became mentally.

I could no longer see the beauty of everything around me. My mind was in a perpetually dark winter night, even though the sun was shining. I was grumpy, short and snappy (poor Ted). I became exasperated by the notion of having to ride my bike every day, not wanting to ride, but not wanting to do anything else either. I wanted to be at home in Hathersage, in front of the log burner with a good book and a big mug of tea, but of course that was just a dream.  It lead to some heated arguments with Ted, as the notion of ‘just choose to be happy’ and ‘snap out of it’ were not well received by me. But still I stubbornly ploughed on, convincing myself that I didn’t need a rest day, that I wasn’t ‘that bad’. As though there was some level of suffering or some achievement of distance that needed to be reached before I ‘deserved’ a rest day.

I realise in hindsight this all very ridiculous. I dragged myself slowly over the 3000m pass to Naryn, then another 3000m pass off road from Naryn to Kazarman, and then finally, I relented. We took a rest day.

The weather rolled in again, bringing snow and rain, confirming that the earlier warmer temperatures had indeed been a fools spring. I spent the day sleeping, resting, reading, writing and sure enough I started to feel a bit better. By the time the weather had cleared up so too had the worst of my bad mood. It was now less of a dark winter night, and now more of a grey dull morning. I resolved to reintroduce some yoga stretches and breath work into my mornings and made the effort to wake a little earlier in order to be able to do them. It felt like taking back a little control over my own wellbeing and it felt good. Small steps but positive ones in the right direction.

All Roads to Nowhere

The sun was starting to break up the clouds as we rolled out the following morning. The bikes were heavily laden with a few days worth of food, our intention being to spend a few days heading over an off road pass to Jalalabad. But as soon as we approached the first small village, every car full of locals was indicating to us that the road ahead was closed. We usually like to asses for ourselves just how ‘closed’ a closed road really is, as they are usually passable with our bikes. But as we stood talking to one car driver, another three also stopped to join the discussion, then a horseman galloped across the field to reaffirm what they were telling us, and then three younger shepherds who understood Google Translate also agreed, we could not pass on our bikes. Disappointed not to be taking the more adventurous route, we rejoined the main road. We had read that the main road was closed due to some tunnel repairs, but all the locals explained it was now open, so off we went.

The main road was a perfectly paved double laned highway, but as we ticked off each kilometer, the road became quieter and quieter. 25kms later and it was eerily quiet. Until it was just us. That niggling feeling that this main road was closed too, suddenly grew much bigger. I decided to ask the next car that passed, only there was no one in sight. We did what any self-respecting cyclist would do and used our time waiting for a car, to eat (more bread and tomato!). By the time we had finished munching, a car was on its way towards us, and the guys in it confirmed our fears. They showed me a photo of the tunnel on their phones, it’s entrance way blocked by over a meter of snow. Great. So we retraced the 25km back to Kazarman where we had started the day. A whole 50km of cycling to get us back to where we started. Not ideal.

Whilst enjoying the great luxury of a bench in a bus stop outside Kazarman we studied the maps again. There was only one other road out of town we hadn’t yet tried. On Google Maps the road didn’t exist, on our Garmin maps the road ended just out of town, on Locus Maps the road made it about 50km before ending – but the locals we asked all said this was the road to Jalalabad. Now when they said it was the road to Jalalabad, what they really meant is that it is a road that eventually could link you to a road, that then joined another road, that could finally take us to Jalalabad – it was a 500km diversion! 500kms!!! In UK terms, that would be like saying you have to divert via London if you want to get from Sheffield to York – On a bicycle! 

Given that we hadn’t had much luck with the road advice from locals we uummmed and ahhhed a little while. But our only other option was to retrace our steps and reverse the last four days of cycling, which really wasn’t an appealing prospect. So we decided we would give it a go and keep our fingers crossed that the road went further than any of our maps indicated.

So with an hour to go until sunset we head off, up the last road out of town, keeping everything crossed we wouldn’t be turning around again. It was another wide, smooth highway, but again it had very little traffic. We immediately had that same sensation of feeling as though the locals may have got it wrong, but with 50km of road on the map before it ended we had to put it to the back of our minds for a little while. As we did, we looked up and appreciated the absolute beauty of where we were. The road followed a river gorge, cut into the side of high mountains. The setting sun created a magical combination of shadowy peaks and beams of light streaming through each dip in the jagged ridgeline. We found a flat-ish spot for the tent, high above the empty road, and set up for an evening of glorious entertainment from nature – the setting sun and a little camp fire (the first in months and months). Such simple pleasures.

The following day we set off again up the empty road, it became more and more beautiful the further along we cycled. The photos really don’t do it justice. The rock formations and the colours and the river and the mountains and the snow and the blue blue sky – what a combination. We still had the road to ourselves, I think we saw about ten cars the whole day, but they hadn’t turned around and head back towards us, which was a good sign. Our day was slow going purely because we stopped so much to take photos or just to stand and stare at everything that was before us, trying to take it all in. As we camped that night, under huge red rock formations that reminded us of Utah, we were releived to realise we were now on the northern part of the road, and had linked the two sections on our map. Regardless of this, we had also come to realise that this road was exactly where we were supposed to be, we were supposed to come this way to see all this amazing beauty, to enjoy a few days at slightly lower elevation, to defrost in the warmer temperatures and to cruise along on smooth traffic free asphalt. It turns out it was just what my body and mind needed – things happen for a reason after all.

The Final Winter Freeze

A few days later and we were back to freezing temperatures as we hurdled over our final pass of Kyrgyzstan. Up and over the only road open across the mountain range throughout winter. One last push up to 3000m. Two days of uphill climbing that involved our coldest ever night of camping (on the one patch of ground that wasn’t frozen bog), a night sleeping in the side room of a restaurant with icicles as large as me hanging from the roof and meeting a Swiss overlander in his campervan at the top of the pass who handed us a couple of bars of real Swiss chocolate – what a guy!

Leaving Winter and Arriving in Spring

So after leaving our Swiss friend and his van of chocolate behind, we found ourselves descending out of winter. The black and white scenes from our climb up to the top of the pass suddenly had a blue sky above them. Then some trees were added into the mix. We kept descending. Dark, dark evergreens started breaking up the patchy snow as we descended back below the tree line. The early shoots of grass started to peep their heads up offering another tone to the colour palette. We kept descending. Trees suddenly had bright green shoots again. Birds were singing. The sun had some warmth to it. We kept descending. There were trees full of blossom and bees. Seasonal businesses were opening their doors for the first time, brushing away the dust and cobwebs of winter. Roadside yurts were selling honey. We descended over 2500m and suddenly found ourselves in spring. Our fingers were too hot inside our mittens, the trousers and merino tops suddenly felt ridiculous. And as we peeled off our waterproofs and packed them away, it felt like this time we were truly shrugging off the last of winter, as though the last of my lingering mental gloom was being thrown out with a good spring clean. We were boldly stood in spring in full bloom and it felt great.

We passed into Uzbekistan full of the joys of spring and we’re surprised by the lush, fresh greenery that greeted us. We had always imagined Uzbekistan to be a barren, scorching desert but to have arrived in early spring meant we enjoyed temperatures of between 20°-30°. The warmth and generosity of the people in Uzbekistan was also an incredible experience. Everywhere we stopped, whether to buy an apple, decide which way to turn, or to simply have a rest, we were greeted and soon surrounded by many people. We were always welcomed with so many questions, offers of food and places to stay. People would see us cycling along and pull over in their car to invite us to stay with them (we soon realised we couldn’t accept them all!). We were invited to talk in an English lesson at a college and frequently had prayers and blessings bestowed upon us. It was wonderful. Everyone we met was so respectful and polite, especially the young people who dressed so smartly and spoke such ‘proper’ English that we felt like we were in an episode of Bridgerton – we were definitely the street urchins of the scenario.

We made it to Tashkent in only a few days and instantly wished we had spent longer in Uzbekistan. We already had our flight booked, so instead relished the last few days we had there by spending it in the city. We explored the historical Chorsu Bazaar, that sold anything and everything. We enjoyed feeling like we were walking in the footsteps of spice route traders and silk road merchants from years gone by who would trade their goods in the same spot as the modern day market. Their next steps would have been over the same mountain ranges we had just traversed, they would have been experiencing different cultures and people the way we had been doing, they too would have been welcoming the spring after enduring the winter cold.

For us, our next leap would be to Azerbaijan. It would be our last flight of the trip. From there it would be legs all the way to home and with that realisation it definitely felt like the seasons our of trip had shifted again.