Dangerous trident thorns and organization of the border crossing

(Photos of the diary entry can be found at the end of the text).

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At only 5 °C, the night was already quite chilly, but the rising sun warmed the day quite quickly. At 8:00 a.m. Peter calls out: “Breakfast is ready!” We immediately rush into the luxury mobile and sit down at the table. Katharina serves rice pancakes and delicious cappuccino. Tanja contributes a few nuts and dried fruit. We discuss the day ahead and think about how many kilometers Peter should wait for us to recharge the batteries.

We are just about to load our bikes when a lone cyclist rides against the wind in our direction. When he spots us, he stops, puts his heavily laden bike on the stand and comes to greet us. We learn that he has been on the road for four years and is on his way to Europe. “I don’t know if I can get a visa for Russia. As a rule, they don’t give Japanese people one,” he explains. “And how will you get from Mongolia to Europe?” I ask. “I don’t know yet. Maybe via Kazakhstan, Turkmenistan, Iran and Turkey.” “Well, you’ve still got a long way to go. Above all, winter is just around the corner. It gets mercilessly cold in this region,” I point out. “I realize that. I don’t know what I’m doing yet. Maybe I’ll try to fly from Ulan Bator to Berlin,” he explains. We wish each other a good and safe journey and say goodbye to each other. Then we get on our Riese and Müller. Today, the wind is still blowing at our backs at force four in fine weather. As if we were sailing, we hurtle over the asphalt towards China. After 70 kilometers we still have some juice in our battery 1. Peter is parked with his motorhome not far from the highway. We steer our bikes off the road and park them next to the mobile house. This time we are spoiled with a pasta dish. At 3 p.m., we reach the town sign of Zamiin Uud, the Mongolian border town, which stretches across the highway. We get off our bikes and take a few photos. I jump for joy at having arrived here so unexpectedly quickly and so easily.

Only a little later we meet our grasshopper family and Jens with his orange Elton. They are waiting for us at the Moutstation. We greet our new friends and discuss where to camp for the night. “It’s not nice here next to the petrol station. There’s too much garbage lying around,” Tanja and Katharina agree. “Then let’s move 100 meters away from here onto the steppe. It looks pretty good there. Above all, there’s no garbage lying around,” I suggest. After all those present are of the same opinion, we push our e-bikes over the sand and shrubbery in the best of moods to our chosen camp site, where we will wait for the rest of the tour group tomorrow. “Once we’ve unloaded, we should take the bikes into town to buy something to eat for all of us,” Tanja suggests. “Good idea, then we can at least return the favor a little,” I say as my gaze falls on my front tire. “This can’t be true! Look at these fucking spiky things!” I shout in horror, pointing at our tires. Countless trident thorns stick like burrs to the bike and trailer coats. “You don’t mind, do you?” asks Tanja. “What do I know? But it looks damn dangerous,” I reply immediately, examining the tires. “Ouch! They really hurt,” I shudder, pulling one out of my coat. Zsssssch, a slight hiss can be heard. In the meantime, Katharina and Peter have also rushed over. “The thorns certainly can’t penetrate the tires,” says Peter confidently. “I think so. I just removed one of those porcupines from the tire and it hissed.” “Can’t be?” “Yes,” I say and pull more trident thorns out of the rubber. Again and again you can hear a slight zssssssch and after five minutes my front and rear tires are flat. “Oh no!” I curse indignantly, as it’s definitely not going to be an evening of rest for me. Now in a bad mood, I unload our bikes and carry the saddlebags and panniers to the place where I have only seen a few of the trident spikes. Meanwhile, Tanja went to Zamiin Uud with Jens to get food and beer for tonight.

After the bikes are unloaded, I carry them to my chosen campsite so as not to bring in any more of the horrible thorns. As soon as I have parked her, Tanja’s front tire is flat. Katharina and Peter seem to feel a little sorry for me. They help me put up the tent. Then I lay an old bed sheet, which we had packed especially for repairs, over the desert sand and start to remove the rear tire. Peter brings me a bucket of water. To see how many holes the spikes have made, I dip the hose in and pull it through the water bit by bit. “One, two, three, four,” I count. “Four holes?” Peter is astonished. But we are not finished yet. “Five, six, seven, eight, nine!” I shout. Tanja and Jens have now returned from shopping. Jens sits in the pleasantly warm evening sun and watches me. He can’t resist the odd ironic comment. If I were in his shoes, I might make similar comments, but I just don’t feel like laughing. Katharina has taken a camp chair and is trying to pull out every single spike that has worked its way into the rubber of the tire with a pair of tweezers. There are eight holes in coat two and three of the thorns in tire three have destroyed the tube. All in all, we have picked up 20 holes within 60 seconds. We will find out tomorrow whether the four trailer tires and Tanja’s rear tires have survived this thorn attack. The fact is that hardly any cyclist takes so much repair kit with them on a trip. I, on the other hand, still have glue for a single hole. Tomorrow I will pull in the last three new tubes and hope to cross the border into China.

“You’d think someone was shooting at us with buckshot,” I say, shaking my head as it gets dark and I interrupt my work. I wash my hands as best I can and take refuge in the caravan of the helpful Grasshopper family. “The only way to get the bikes out of here in one piece is to carry them to the road. However, I took a closer look at the parking lot next to the petrol station and discovered these trident thorns there too,” I say as we talk over dinner about how we are going to reach the border without another flat tire. “I could well imagine the wind blowing such thorns onto the road,” Peter ponders. “That’s for sure. On the way to Khamariin Khiid we also had two flat tires within 70 km without seeing what caused them. It was probably the same stuff. The things roll like little balls over the road and love to destroy bicycle tires.” “The problem is that the thorns in the rubber break off and are no longer visible,” adds Katharina, who spent hours this afternoon pulling many of the thorns out of the tires. “Yes, and if you then insert a new tube and ride off, a spike like that can cause another flat tire. So I think all the coats are broken,” I ponder. “And how are we going to get across the border safely?” I interject. “There’s good news,” replies Peter. “Let’s hear it,” I say. “Jens has offered to load your bikes into his van and take them over with him. We can store all your luggage with us. There’s plenty of space here.” Tanja and I look at each other. Once again, the hands of angels are lending us a helping hand. Again we are carried and a serious problem is transformed into a previously unthinkable, much better situation.

“We’ll email Mrs. Spring tomorrow and send her your papers as a PDF. Let’s see what she gets. Maybe you can just drive across the border with us? You’d have to load the bikes into a minibus anyway because you’re not allowed to cross with them,” says Katharina.

After dinner, there are chips and beer. Even though the flat tire situation wasn’t great for us, the mood was relaxed, especially with the prospect of being able to ride with Katharina, Peter and Jens. “What do you think about me telling you the story today of how we crossed Pakistan with our camels and Tanja’s courageous and brave efforts prevented her camel bull from tearing off my hand?” “Oh yes, that sounds exciting. We want to hear that story,” is the reply, to which I whisk my listeners away to another world…

It is already late when I leave the motorhome and meet Jens, who is gazing up at the clear starry sky of the desert. “It’s beautiful,” I say quietly. “Unbelievable,” he replies and shows me a few constellations. “Thanks for your offer to take our bikes over, by the way.” “No problem, I’ll be happy to do that. Which country are you actually going to visit after China? “We want to go to Vietnam.” “When?” “From March, I think.” “Well, you’ll be in the five-month rainy season. It’s not pleasant,” he tells me. “Who knows what will happen between now and then. Maybe we’ll get a visa extension for China, in which case we’ll reach Vietnam three months later,” I reply and, because I’m dog-tired, I wish him a good night.

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