At last, it was time. Time to meet my new cycling tribe and get the adventure I’d been waiting for underway. When joining any group tour, there’s always a rider meeting, that first gathering where everyone sizes each other up, secretly wondering who they’ll ride with the most, laugh with the most, or quietly try to avoid. This was my second Sisters in the Wild trip, so I at least knew the vibe would be good, based on past experience. Like that first meeting in Africa, I remained astounded by how many people genuinely liked camping. Let’s see if this trip would raise my low-level love for temporary homelessness.
The meeting passed without too much information overload, even with my stomach rumbling I managed to concentrate for most of it. Next task was to get all my kit checked over, to ensure I wouldn’t freeze to death in the mountains, be issued a toilet roll, then off for dinner and an early night.
After a long journey and an uneventful shakedown ride in Kochkor, I had a few small adjustments to make on the bike, but was ready for the roll out into the wilderness. The surrounding mountains looked strangely ominous and inviting in equal measure. It felt good to finally be leaving civilisation behind and embrace the remoteness and near-total silence from the outside world.
As we rolled out on the first real day of cycling, something felt off. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but I just couldn’t get into a good rhythm. An elevated heart rate and some breathlessness are to be expected at altitude, and I was also aware I hadn’t cycled for nearly two weeks, thanks to my pre-tour adventures. But like normal, I pushed it to the back of my mind, convinced myself I would settle, and headed to camp. Our first wild camp — I was hoping for a better location than a dusty African hotel car park, and I wasn’t disappointed.
I was a little bit rusty putting my tent up, but got organised in good time, before realising a fellow non-camper with a borrowed tent wasn’t having such good luck. I had a quick flashback to my first day in Egypt, where I had no clue how to construct my room for the night, and quickly strode over — if not to offer assistance, since I didn’t really know what I was doing, then at least moral support. Between us we quickly worked it out, and I felt like I had returned the kindness Pascale had offered me all those months ago. Mission accomplished.
As I lay in my tent listening to the river flow soothingly, my heart rate raced faster than I’d ever known. I felt wired, and as the hours passed I gave up on the idea that I might fall asleep. At some point I must have nodded off, as at 5:30 I woke with a start and ridiculous stomach pains. What then unfolded was quite literally a ‘shit show’ — my greatest fear in the wilds of Africa, which I had successfully avoided, had well and truly caught up with me. After one too many trips with the shovel, I decided to at least try and cycle, and just see what would happen.
The first five miles felt like fifty. I quietly grumbled at the back with the sweep rider, as my heart rate soared higher and higher. After rounding the corner to take some shade, I instantly threw up and knew my day on the bike was done.
Unlike the crushing disappointment I’d felt about the ‘dog box’ in Africa, I resigned myself quickly to the fact the van was the only option. I felt dreadful. The hours passed slowly and I deteriorated into a shivering mess, with a fever and now vomiting — seemingly exacerbated by the rough roads, as the rougher they got, the more I threw up. I have never been so glad to get to a wild camping spot in my life.
It felt like the day had just passed me by, and I hadn’t really seen any of the stunning nature that surrounded me. Collapsing in my tent with a high temperature, I just hoped tomorrow would be better.
Tomorrow came with me proudly announcing, ‘If I could eat breakfast, I would ride.’ Of course I was exhausted, but I was itching to get back out onto the trails. I ate breakfast, instantly threw up, and accepted another day in the van.
Today went by with higher levels of enjoyment — I could keep down food and water, and more importantly, interact with the group and enjoy the stunning scenery. The big prize waiting at the end of the day was a bed and a shower, and also not having to continue listening to the same Uzbek song the driver had on repeat for two hours straight.
After an incredible night’s sleep, I donned my cycling gear, ready to set off — first an epic descent, before a road section, followed by a gradual, rough ascent to camp. Starting the day with trepidation, having consumed very little over the last 48 hours, I got back into some kind of rhythm, even though I felt I could drink Son Kul Lake dry! As the temperatures rose and I felt my energy drop off a cliff, I decided to jump back into the van for the last 15km.
I was pleased I had made it through most of the day, and the van ride also gave me the opportunity to take some incredible photos. From two days ago, where I saw nothing, today I saw everything.
With only three days left of riding, I wanted to make the most of what I had left. The climbing at altitude, after a bout of sickness, was tough. Desperately short of breath, I regularly questioned whether it was even me who’d cycled across a continent the year before. I was the person who did it, and still I didn’t believe it. Although the climbs were tough, the descents were fast and furious — like always, the sense of freedom as I belted down rutted, potholed tracks reminded me how grateful I was to get to do things like this, with a fantastic bunch of fellow riders and crew.
As we edged closer to civilisation and more touristic areas, I experienced my first night in a yurt, where Jen and I quickly learned a lesson: when the man comes in to ask if you want a fire in the summer, the answer is no. Of course, that isn’t the answer we gave, and we both found sleep hard to come by — it felt like a burning inferno.
By the last camp, the group dynamics had developed to the point where games were played, jokes were shared, and I laughed like I hadn’t laughed in a long time. Even the support crew joined in, proving that you don’t need to share a language to still connect and have fun. We did have the added bonus of Karen translating, but people were genuinely having a good time regardless.
The final day of riding felt bittersweet. I finally felt like I was coming into some kind of form, but it was time to go home. Not before racing away from the clouds to finish ahead of an incredible storm, and a farewell dinner.
Despite the bad luck I had with illness, the camaraderie was high, the crewing strong, the route brilliantly curated, and the people a joy to be around. Definitely somewhere I will visit again in the future.
Leave a comment