On the road with God

At around three degrees plus, thick fog hangs over the sports hotel. It is unpleasantly cold and wet and water is dripping from the roofs. However, it doesn’t take long for the sun to break through with its sharp rays. As we let our pedals spin, we are greeted by a clear blue sky for the first time in five days. We quickly leave the miserable village behind us. We are happy to be able to travel on, whereas most people here remain trapped in their sometimes sad fate of poverty. The master is well-disposed towards us and we make unchecked progress. In the village of Tataurowo, the road leads us in a south-easterly direction. Here we finally leave the Baikal region behind us. Just as we had hoped to have left the mountains behind us for good, we are surprised again by a pass almost 700 meters high. It climbs eight to 12 percent for kilometers. My knee is acting up. I grit my teeth and keep pedaling my steed. Tanja pushes. At the top, there are countless coins lying on and beside the road. To honor the gods and wish good luck and health for themselves, almost every driver throws small pieces of money out of the window. For some people, this is a good way to earn a little money. Head bent down, they search every square meter for the best and most valuable coins. Because I’m waiting for Tanja, I have the opportunity to watch the money collectors. Strangely enough, all small coins such as 10 or 20 kopecks (purchasing power comparable to 10 or 20 euro cents) are ignored. When you consider that there are several kilograms of kopecks lying around here, it’s incomprehensible to me.

We put on a wind stopper for the descent. After overcoming 9,961 meters of altitude on the route between Krasnoyarsk and here, we now let our sumo bikes roll down the last mountain before the city of Ulan-Ude into the valley. We meet the wide Selenga again, which meanders leisurely towards its destination, the Baikal. The valley becomes visibly wider. Many villages line the southern slopes of the foothills. Steel railroad bridges cross the river. Eternally long freight trains of the Trans-Siberian Railway thunder over it every few minutes. Some of the locomotives pull more than 75 wagons full of coal, gas or other raw materials behind them.

Suddenly I spot an initially unidentifiable shape slowly approaching us in the left-hand lane. “That’s a long-distance cyclist!” I realize with delight, because we’ve hardly met any before. “Priwet” (hello) is how I greet the Russian, who is pushing his heavily laden bike against the wind. “Privet,” he laughs heartily, returning my greeting. “Menja sawut Nicolai” (“My name is Nicolai”), he immediately introduces himself politely. Nicolai immediately pulls out a Russian car atlas to show us his route. “I come from the village of Naukam, the north-easternmost point of Russia, right on the Bering Strait. From there, it’s only 84 kilometers to Alaska.” “Oh God, that’s a long way.” “Yes, 13,000 kilometers. I’m going to travel all the way to St. Petersburg and then to Moscow.” “So a total crossing of your country?” “Yes.” “How long have you been on the road?” “Two and a half years.” “And what do you do in winter?” “The same as in summer. I sleep in a tent.” “Even at minus 40 degrees? Isn’t that too cold?” “Oh no. I’m traveling with God. I’m never cold. Ha, ha, ha,” laughs the fifty-four-year-old, pointing to a 50 × 50 centimeter icon that he has mounted in front of his handlebars. “Isn’t it very difficult to cycle against the wind with the icon?” I ask, as the wind is caught in the large picture frame like a sail. “Oh no. She helps me. God helps me always and everywhere.” “Do you want to give Nicolai your last Samba chocolate wafer from Rapunzel?” Tanja asks me, impressed by his enormous achievement. “But of course,” I’m delighted with her idea and immediately take the treasure out of my handlebar bag. During our conversation, the cars roar past us. “Oh you! Watch out! Not so tight! Yes! Yes! Always drive past! Ha, ha, ha!” Nicolai shouts with a laugh, waving or swearing at the drivers. He does not resent them. On the contrary, he has made his peace with the raging piles of metal. It is absolutely palpable that he sees the individual behind the wheel of every car. “Uh, hello! Please come over here and take a picture of us!” he calls out to a lone hiker who is walking along the side of the road. The man we spoke to actually interrupts his hike, greets us in a friendly manner and takes Nicolai’s and our camera to capture the memorable moment. “Schasliwa Putie, Da ßwidanja” (Have a good trip, goodbye), he wishes us all and continues his march towards Ulan-Ude. “We could also spare a travel lunch pack,” Tanja suggests, which is why we give Nicolai another one of our valuable freeze-dried ready meals. “But no. Thank you very much. I’ve already got the bar from you,” Nicolai tries to modestly decline. “This comes with great joy from God,” I say, whereupon he gladly accepts the package. “Here, I also have a little podarok (gift) for you. I’ve been cycling this with me for over 10,000 kilometers,” he explains and hands us a small picture with Mother Mary, Jesus and St. Nicolai behind the plastic frame. “But we can’t accept that,” we try to refuse. “Ha, ha, ha, but of course you can take it. I’m happy to give it to you. It will bring you luck and also protect you,” he says, whereupon we hand him one of our autograph cards. “Thank you very much. I’ll remember that,” he says, putting it away immediately. “Before we go, we have a little something for you,” says Tanja, pulling a yellow lucky flower off her bike light. I immediately seize the opportunity and put it over Nicolai’s bike lights. “That’s really nice of you,” he beams, thanking us again. Then we say goodbye and continue our cycle tours in different directions.

After 65 kilometers we reach Ulan-Ude, the capital of the so-called Buryat-Mongolian Republic. Compared to Irkutsk, the traffic is decidedly calmer, although almost 400,000 people live here too. As with almost all larger towns in the Baikal region, the origins of Ulan-Ude lie in a Cossack fortress founded in 1666 with a few log cabins on the Uda River. “Tühht! Tühht! Tühht!” it soon honks incessantly. Compared to the rest of Russia, the Buryats seem to welcome us even more fiercely than usual. They wave boisterously and laugh heartily. When we come to a halt at the traffic lights, some people ask us where we are coming from and where we are going. It’s almost like Kazakhstan. There, too, we were soon always the absolute attraction with our road trains.

Prefabricated buildings decorated with Buryat symbols line the main street. It is hard to imagine that the Evenks from the nearby taiga once rode here to trade in precious furs. Or that Chinese people advertised expensive fabrics and Buryat cattle breeders drove herds of cattle and horses around the marketplace. We find decent accommodation in the center. Here we plan the route to the Mongolian-Russian border and our farewell to one of the most beautiful and scenically spectacular countries on earth; Siberia.

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