Finding heaven in hell
Deserts are a mirror to our dreams and nightmares; with the ability to give you everything you’ve ever wanted and conversely punish you in a way you’ve never experienced. I thought I knew what to expect of this great odyssey of heat and sand; but I only knew it’s vague outline, with the reality becoming more pronounced with each day spent there. Starting in Aktau, Kazakhstan and finishing in Nukus, Uzbekistan there is approximately 1000km of the Kyzylkum desert to pass, with regular 80km+ distances of absolute nothingness and no shade or any chance to find water in, in temperatures north of 40c. Throw in some nasty headwind and my friend let me tell you, it can be torture.
20km inside Uzbekistan: 5 days of torment behind me
Things started so perfectly, landing in Aktau that morning I slept for a few hours before doing an afternoon stint to make a dent in the distance. Cruising along with an amazing tailwind I was immediately awestruck with my surroundings. I had never seen anywhere like it, yet alone cycled through it. As someone who only eight months ago didn’t even like cycling I had to give myself a slight nod of respect but also remind myself that amateur hour could not occur here. There would be no pubs to save me, no evening curries to reenergise and it would only be me, myself and I for company.
I made good distance that afternoon and convinced myself that this would just be a matter of time in saddle; happy days and a chance to completely detach from civilisation. I pitch tent next to the main highway that I would follow for the next 450km and enjoy the spectacle of sunset in a desert. It’s pink hue bringing alive the khaki desert sands in ways I had not expected, reminiscent of wearing pink shades at a rave and I did not even miss shade or trees…. at this point.
I woke, as I would do every morning, at 5.30am to make the most of the cool mornings. The tent was flapping in the wind and I assumed it was a continuation of the gracious tailwind that brought me here. Oh no, it was very firmly in the opposite direction, an east-northeasterly wind straight from the very heartland of Central Asia, uninterrupted for thousands of kilometres. This would be the general wind direction for the next week, making what was going to be a tough ask, even harder.
A parched landscape: a feast for the eyes
With cycling you can put up with rain (bad luck), the odd puncture or misdirection (part of the game); but what makes you feel as if the world is against you is a savage headwind. You start thinking of things or people to blame, with the wind so noisy at times you can’t even distract yourself by listening to a bit of Dua Lipa. Instead you are forced to dip the head and endure and it will with make you or break you (or send you slightly insane for a day or two). Trying to motivate yourself in a tent that’s moving as if its in a tumble-dryer is a tough ask, and every morning asked me the same question, ‘have you got the minerals to keep going?’.
My little morale boosts came in the form of the ridiculous looking, and copious numbers of, camels. These are a namesake of the school I went to, and upon seeing one in moments of anguish I would let out a wry smile and pretend it was a mate from home telling me to get going; with their ‘unique’ smell only reinforcing in my mind that these actually could be my mates. I owe a lot to these true masters of sand.
Sunrise: early grinds to avoid the burns
What was also very reassuring on this trip was the first class kindness and genuine concern that everyone: Kazakhs, Uzbeks and transiting truckers had for me. I lost count of the times people would overtake me, put on their hazards and jump out with bottles of water or food for me. In fact so reliable was this as a safety net, and with my confidence in the crossing growing by about day four, I began to chance my arm a bit. Carrying less of my own supplies to save the strenuous effort brought on by the headwind I began practising what became a Kazakh roulette.
I would carry most of my core supplies myself - survivable water, dried meat and pasta etc - but upon seeing a lorry coming slowly towards me (the road surface was diabolic) I would wave my empty water bottle and they happily would flash their lights, jump out and have a selfie with you. As a bonus, these delights would usually come from their onboard mini fridges, both refreshing and lifesaving. I had read other travellers trying similar things, with varying degrees of success; yet here I was, in the most strenuous period of my life, completely dependant on strangers to continue, actually beginning to enjoy the ride!
Kindness will carry you: another lunch handed over.
The days largely followed the same pattern; wake early bash out 80km before hiding somewhere from about 1pm-4pm before trying to get through another 30km before camp. Heat, headwind, thirst and fatigue. With nothing to really focus your eyes on your mind can wander into the most vivid places, triggered either by some deep recess of memory or a stimulus of some sorts. One particularly vivid moment, probably in the throngs of early sunstroke, I had downloaded a few songs to the iPhone and on comes bittersweet symphony by the Verve. In a very hard to describe, almost hallucinogenic, moment I was taken right back to childhood, on a road trip to Portsmouth harbour. The road expanded before my eyes and I was on what felt like the A3 zooming south. As soon as it came on the moment past and it was back to wind, sun and screaming legs.
If the days were tough then the evenings were nothing short of a delight. To watch the sun dip over the apparently endless horizon and to feel the cool of night rush in its place is something I could play over in my mind for eternity. As the red and pinks give way to black you are gripped by the silence, something so deafening and comforting at the same time. I believe there is something unique about a desert silence, with the only sound for miles around often only my own farts and splutters. Wait longer and pin pricks of lights begin to emerge across the horizon, making you feel as if you are trapped in a snow globe, and anticipating the night sky eagerly.
And then it emerges, like the slow entrance that proceeds the northern lights, the Milky Way is a shy beast at first before erupting into quite literally the cosmos. You can lose yourself for hours in there and were it not for the early alarms I would have stayed all night staring, thinking, scheming. You finish up in your tent about to pass out finding to your surprise that you enjoy the desert life, eager to eat up the kilometres ahead and also fully aware you’ll miss this place when you exit.
E601: the artery running through the desert
These thoughts of enjoyment were rocked upon crossing the border into Uzbekistan, where the flat and firm tarmac gives way to the E601. Without a doubt the worst surface I have ever seen, let alone ridden on. For about 70km it’s a smorgasbord (love that word) of craters, sand, washboard tarmac and everything else in between. It also coincides with the most remote section of the trip, adding a lot of time until you can next get water (or hopefully see a truck to play supply roulette with). Despite the anguish the road and headwind was having on me mentally and physically, I strangely enjoyed every moment. I felt like every day I completed was a building block added to me as a person, knowing that if/when I could get through this part of my trip (and snippet of life) then there’s more grit to me than I first thought.
A key concept of this whole trip has been my mindset that comfortability is the enemy of growth, which I have had plaguing me for over a year. I was always perfectly happy back home but never quite feeling like the final package. Without pushing oneself to their limits, how do you truly know what you’re capable of? I think everyone is capable of much more than they think, possessing the ability to perform incredible feats of endurance or creativity, if only we let ourselves be pushed. From someone with half a left knee and who saw cyclists as a delay in getting to a pub, to now being firmly in the fold and crossing a desert many thousands of miles from home. I had grown and the desert had only amplified this growth. The itch I had long carried with me, burning every morning I logged into a laptop or evening spent draining my mind in front of netflix, finally scratched, but its been a long, hard scratch.
Midday meltdown: the wind getting to me
My final night in the desert was concluded by the appearance of the new moon. Was this a metaphor for me and my experience through the desert? Who knows, and after several consecutive days cycling more than 140km I could barely keep my eyes open long enough to consider it. I have left the desert feeling privileged to have passed through this part of the world and in a strange way I already miss it. I know I will never do something like a solo desert crossing again, and its a strange concept to have….to know you will never do something again.
As majestic as it is inhospitable at times, and a place where the lights and nights captivate you. I will forever remember these hard days and long nights as fondly as anything I have ever done in my life. We all have our own deserts and we must all remember to cross them….. or at the very least play roulette with and hope the end result is a cold coke.
From a sandy, sunburnt Brit.
