Merciless gravel and mountains

When the beep of my Suunto arm computer sounds, I think I’ve made a serious mistake. I look at the dial with narrowed eyes. No mistake. It’s 8:30 am. “We have to get out,” I call cautiously, trying to get Tanja to get up as well. Although we didn’t get to bed until 1:00 am, we had to leave our room at 9:00 am. In this motel the room is charged per hour. We have to pay again from 9:00 am. We quickly put our things away outside. Then I fetch our bikes, which have been locked away overnight in a large garage next door. As always, it is a pleasant sight when our aluminum donkeys are still intact in their respective chambers the next morning and I can free them. Before we set off today, we sit down in the motel’s excellent trucker pub and have a hearty breakfast. Then I’ll label the remaining pictures that I didn’t manage to do last night.

Again, we don’t leave until 11:30 am. But as the sun doesn’t set until shortly before 23:00 at the moment, that’s not a problem. Our daily rhythm has only shifted in Siberia. Leaving late means going to bed late. Absolutely fine due to the long days. The Siberians have also adapted to the rhythm. Villages and small towns are often bustling with activity until midnight.

“Moschna fotografirovat?” (“Can I take photos?”) some Russian tourists ask us again as we stand in front of the motel with our bucks loaded up. We reply “Moschna” (“May they”), whereupon we are photographed from several sides, as we soon are every day. As we are on the only possible main route to Lake Baikal, and during the most beautiful time of the year, we meet many Russians who have decided to spend their vacation at Lake Baikal. Somehow it seems to us that for a Russian it is like a pilgrimage to have visited the largest freshwater lake on earth at least once in a lifetime. One reason for the sometimes busy road is that, in addition to the many trucks, there is also the volume of traffic from holidaymakers at this time of year. “I can imagine that we will only come across beautiful, modern accommodation like this on the way to Baikal. Baikal seems to have the same significance as the Eiffel Tower for the French or the pyramids for the Egyptians. People from all over the world want to go there. I imagined it to be lonelier and more exotic. But on the other hand, that’s not bad for us,” I say as we let our bikes carry us up another slight incline. “What do you mean?” asks Tanja. “Hm, well, when I look at the road today, it’s fantastically developed. Soon to be like a highway. It might stay that way. It’s all made for long-distance traffic and tourists. Then there are the wonderful accommodations with nice, well-trained people. It will soon be like a western country,” I reply, musing. “I hope you’re not mistaken. I don’t know what glasses you’re looking through at the moment, but all I can see is forest all around us. No café, no emergency call pillar, not a single car at the moment and Georgio has told us that we will encounter gravel, pebbles and potholes on the next 300 kilometers,” Tanja sobers me up. “Hm, you’re probably right,” I reply, not knowing at the time just how right she is.

Decision

The speedometer shows 17 kilometers for the day as a nightmare manifests itself under our wheels. Even from a distance, we could see the heavy plumes of dust rising into the sky dotted with light fleecy clouds. As soon as our tires roll off the last centimetre of smooth bitumen, the road starts to bump. It doesn’t take long for our necks and shoulders to tense up. After five kilometers and over an hour later, my elbows start to send signals. And this despite the fact that we have full-suspension bikes. Our bags, cameras, laptops and satellite phones are shaken so much that it’s only a matter of time before something gives up the ghost. Inexplicably, there is a lot of traffic on this section. Maybe it’s because of the lorries, which are bumping across the field at a maximum speed of 10 km/h and holding up the cars. Every few kilometers, a vehicle breaks down on the side of the road. Tires that could not withstand the sometimes sharp stones are changed. The fine, swirling dust reduces visibility. Almost all of the cars rattle past us at undiminished speed. Stones are whirled up by the tires and hit our frame or rims. We cough and spit. Drink water all the time. The thermometer shows 31 degrees, 54 degrees in the sun. We sweat and concentrate. You mustn’t make a mistake because you can quickly start to wobble at a speed of only four to five kilometers per hour. The Rohloff gearshift is pushed to the limit. My right hand is constantly turning the gear lever. First gear, second gear, third gear, then back to first gear. It goes up and down like this. If the reliable gearshift were to let us down here, the journey would be over. There would be no crossing of Siberia without a gearshift option. Up the mountain again. We maltreat the Rohloff again. It clicks reliably and I’m in first. Then nothing works anymore. The rear tire is spinning. Dismount quickly before my heavy steed tips over. The lungs breathe in all the dust and still function splendidly. My heart is pumping like crazy. “How nice it is to have a healthy, fit body,” it goes through my head. Pure high performance is the order of the day. There is no end in sight at this point. On we go, on and on. Into the saddle, crank a few meters and back down again. Feet in the dust and on the stones. The leg muscles pump up. As so often on the trip, I think I can feel two mighty bridge pillars beneath me. My legs are my friends. I am grateful to them for carrying me through this nightmare. Every part of the body is important, nothing must fail. The arms and hands push and squeeze, the breath rattles, the head is empty. Thank God this effort ends the eternal thinking. Calm reigns in the head. Absolute silence. The only thing that matters is getting ahead. It can’t last forever. At some point, the worst nightmare comes to an end. One day, maybe tonight, I’ll give this great body a cold beer. Who knows what the day will bring? How am I supposed to know what to expect? It goes on. “Poch, poch, poch,” I hear it pounding in my chest. The pump works reliably. It rattles and scrapes past us. Tanja is sometimes in front of or behind me. She is also thinking or not thinking at this moment. She also pushes and kicks her Intercontinental. She also lets the Rohloff whir up and down the gears. Her calves also inflate and her breath pants beside me. We take a quick look at each other through the dust. Enough strength for a brief, confident smile. Life is beautiful. We live it purely. Even if it is exhausting from time to time, we are always and without exception rewarded for it. Moments like these are part of it. Are important. Earth us. Show us what we can do and what the word adventure means. A word that has little to do with romance, but rather with a stark, inescapable reality.

The Trans-Siberian Railway runs along the edge of a mountain range through our valley. “Looks picturesque!” Tanja still has the strength to recognize the beauty of the moment. “I should film, but that would destroy the camera. Too much dust. We’ll keep the moment in our memories,” I reply.

We are constantly trying to find the best path for us in the coarse gravel. Some stones are smaller than others. There is dust at the edge of the slope, which is promising and suggests less bumping. But this is a fallacy, as the tires sink into the fine dust and make steering impossible. “Tuuuhhhhht! Tuuuhhhhht! Tuuuhhhhht!”, the loud horn of a truck almost pulls me out of the saddle in shock. The man behind the wheel laughs and sticks his thumb up out of the window. “Malazee!” (“Fantastic!”) he calls out to us encouragingly. A passenger literally shoots through the sunroof of the car and shouts his congratulations. Hands wave incessantly, daily, hourly and, without exaggeration, soon every minute. Athletes have a high status in Russia. This is perhaps the reason why countless drivers salute us every day, giving us the thumbs up, shouting Malazee, laughing, throwing their arms up at the sight of us, putting their left hand in their right and thus expressing their sympathy for our journey. A long-distance cyclist is a hero in Russia, at least that’s how it seems to us. Nevertheless, many of them bump past us and bury us in the dirt. We feel broken and I’m getting more worried about our bikes by the minute. “They can’t stand that. Nothing in the world is built for that,” it goes through my head. A lost couple wobble along the slope. I don’t wonder where they come from. Their swaying reveals that they are heavily intoxicated. Despite everything, I prefer the Magura. “Do you know how much longer this terrible road will go on like this?” “30 kilometers,” the man slurs. “30 kilometers!” I shout, almost horrified. But that can’t be the case. The asphalt must start again soon,” I reply, as we have been told that bitumen and potholes alternate. “There’ll be asphalt in 1 ½ kilometers,” the Russian replies and staggers on. “So what now?” I ask myself. “Asphalt or gravel? What the hell. The man was drunk,” I think to myself and continue pedaling my bike across the minefield. I catch sight of a face in the corner of my eye. It watches us as we drive past. I only recognize fat sunglasses, a gap in his teeth and a cell phone hanging from his ear. The small truck stops just a few meters in front of us. The driver with his ear phone comes up to us and speaks something in Russian. “Gawarit medlennwie paschalusta”, (“Please speak slowly”), I reply, as I have particular difficulty understanding when the Russians speak quickly. “Do you want a ride? The road is terrible. Come on. We’ll load your bikes onto my van. That’s no problem at all,” we understand. Tanja and I look at each other. “Must be one of the angels,” it goes through my head. “How many kilometers is the slope still in this condition?” I want to know. “At least another 25 to 30 kilometers. “Oh dear,” I groan. “What do you think?” asks Tanja, knowing my attitude to carpooling.

In principle, I am in favor of mastering all the challenges that come our way during an expedition or expedition trip. As we humans tend to avoid unpleasant situations, it’s easy to jump at the first opportunity and, as in our case, load the bikes onto a truck. In the end, they didn’t make the journey under their own steam. In the course of my expedition life, I have often experienced that some expeditionists boast of achievements that they did not actually accomplish in the end. Or at least not completely. In later reports, it’s easy to forget that they bridged a few hundred kilometers of a desert stage with a truck. Time and again, there are reports of one or two peaks being conquered single-handedly. The many porters who have lugged hundreds of kilograms of equipment to base camp are sometimes not mentioned. During our 7,000-kilometer walk through Australia, we had difficulties crossing the center. We needed a permit, which we didn’t get from the authorities. Another expedition simply loaded their camels onto a truck and drove 1,000 kilometers through the area in question. After that, however, there was talk of a crossing. We ended up getting a permit from the Aboriginal guides which was not recognized by the authorities. Although it was risky to be caught and punished by the authorities, we walked through this area anyway. We then completed our expedition under our own steam. And yet I realize that there are aids that make perfect sense. Sometimes it is even a mistake not to accept them. Everything in life makes sense, even if you don’t understand it at the moment. Who knows? Maybe one of our bikes will break down over the next 30 kilometers? Or our laptop or camera breaks down? That would be a shame, because a broken frame would end the trip and a defective laptop would jeopardize the current report and the later book. However, it is also possible to be hit by a high hurled stone. The possibilities are virtually endless. “We’ll go with you,” I decide and feel good about it. Because I know that I will write about it and not give us false credit.

In no time at all, Iwan, Tanja and I have loaded everything onto the small van. To protect the bikes, I put two Ortlieb bags between them. This reduces the risk of them chafing each other during the bumpy ride. Ivan tightens them with a rope at the end. Then we get a seat in the back of the van and off we go. Ivan introduces us to his wife Ludmilla, who greets us warmly. Both speak only Russian and report that they are going to Bratsk. A city 250 to 300 kilometers north of us. “Phew, look at the road. I think it was a good decision to come along,” says Tanja. “It was,” I reply somewhat taciturnly, still thinking about whether I’ve chickened out or not. “It must have been a good decision. Wasn’t it? What do you think?” Tanja chats through the window, photographing a broken-down truck. “I’m sure it was,” I reply. “Why are you so silent? Do you think we should have gone?” “No, it was a good decision.” “Hm, I don’t know. Maybe we should have cycled after all?” Tanja continues chatting to herself. “Are you unsure?” I ask. “I just don’t know,” she replies, as she too will soon have overcome all the challenges of our travel life so far under her own steam.

Suddenly, the gravel and crushed stone surface ends and gives way to a wonderful asphalt road. Ivan now scrolls over it at high speed. Tanja and I look at each other. “That was really only 1 ½ kilometers. The drunk was right,” I say, looking out of the window. “We should let Ivan stop. We can cycle here too,” Tanja replies. “That’s right,” I say and tap our helper on the shoulder. “Um, the road is fine. We can drive on ourselves now,” I try to explain. “Njet, Daroga otschin plocho tam” (“No, the road is very bad up ahead”), he replies and roars on, laughing. We drive into a steep bend and when we come out we can’t believe our eyes. If we previously described the slope as poorly passable, this is definitely impassable for us. Large clearing machines push coarse gravel in front of them over which the trucks struggle at walking pace. Piles of earth, dust and rough rock alternate. Iwan brakes his dangerous bike down to about 30 km/h and rattles and crashes over it. I keep glancing back at the loading area to make sure that our Intercontinental hasn’t gone overboard. Tanja’s front carrier is constantly scraping my rims and frame. Apathetically, I watch the emerging damage. “I think we should stop for a moment,” I say, to which Ivan immediately slows down. I climb onto the loading area and push another Ortlieb saddlebag between the wheels for protection. Then the bumpy ride continues. “It was an absolutely good decision,” I say. “Absolutely,” answers Tanja. “It’s a good thing we didn’t get off before the bend. That would have annoyed us to no end,” I add. “Sometimes it’s really good to let things flow,” I hear. “That’s right,” I agree with Tanja, observing the rough ground.

After about 27 kilometers, the nightmare comes to an end and is replaced by a newly built, wide main road. Ivan the Friendly, as we have christened him, because there was also Ivan the Terrible in Russian history, is whizzing over the tar in a good mood. “We should get out,” I say. “I think so too. I want to enjoy the taiga,” answers Tanja. We ask Ivan if he knows when it will get bad again. “Ya nje ßnaio” (“I don’t know”), he replies, shrugging his shoulders. “I’ll drive you as far as Tulun, from there the road is definitely good again,” he explains, whereupon I study the map. “It’s still about 150 kilometers to Tulun from here. We shouldn’t let ourselves be driven that far under any circumstances. There’s no reason to,” I say. “I agree with you. We’re not here to drive,” Tanja replies. “Ivan, please let us out of here. We want to cycle on,” I explain. Ivan the Good looks at us. “But the road is guaranteed to get bad again,” we understand and become unsure. “And yet we want to get back on our bikes,” I reply after a brief pause for thought. Ivan the Friendly fulfills our wish immediately. Shaking his head but laughing, he stops on the hard shoulder. After we have unloaded everything again, we give him a cigar, which we cycle with him especially for such special moments. He is visibly happy and shows us the gaps in his teeth. Afterwards, we thank him and his wife, shake hands and wish each other a safe and pleasant journey. Then he roars off. And as if it was all just a ghost, we are alone again in the taiga. “I hope there’s no gravel around the next bend,” I say, still a little unsure whether it was a good or bad decision to get out here. “If the road had stayed good, we would have been extremely annoyed,” says Tanja. “And if it goes bad again, we’ve just been given 27 kilometers of it,” I join in their cheerfulness.

The first mountain takes all our strength again. It goes up and down. The asphalt remains. At least for the time being. We pedal up to an altitude of 631 meters. According to the altimeter, we have now covered almost 4,000 meters in altitude since Krasnoyarsk. Not very much and yet they are in our bones. Finally a street café appears. We settle down on the veranda of the old wooden hut and eat a borscht (national dish ? vegetable soup), fried eggs, bread and tea. A swallow’s nest directly above our table is a hive of activity. Intimidated by our presence, the parents of the baby birds fly back and forth excitedly. “How far is it to the next town?” Tanja wants to know when she sees me studying the map. “About 40 kilometers,” I answer tiredly. “Oh dear, still a long way to go. If we don’t make it there, we might have to share a camp with the mosquitoes again.” “Maybe.”

On the rest of the journey through the endless forest, we are rewarded by the uniqueness of the beautiful nature despite our tiredness. We stop for a quick chat next to farmers harvesting hay by the roadside. Then we tackle the next climb. The master means well with us at the moment. It blows weakly towards us. On the contrary, it provides some cooling. The bitumen actually stays with us the whole afternoon. So far, we have made the right decision.

It is already 8 p.m. when we reach the small town of Nizhneudinsk after 91 kilometers for the day, 64 of which we have cycled ourselves. The gravel, pebbles, dust and potholes are there again as soon as you enter the town. In the rush hour traffic of this lost town, we drag ourselves through the holes with the last of our strength. The dusty houses and bunkers radiate desolation. “Is there a gastiniza here?” I ask a woman at the side of the road. “Njet” (“No”), she replies. “What, that can’t be true?” I reply, already expecting to have to cycle another 10 kilometers to find a forest camp somewhere behind this ugly nest. Tanja and I stand there a little embarrassed. Suddenly the woman comes back. “How could I forget that. There is a gastiniza. It’s in an office building on the second floor,” she explains. A driver offers to follow him. We bump along the shabby road, past dingy Eastern Bloc apartment buildings. “You’re in the wrong place. That’s not the way to Irkutsk!” a man shouts at us. “We’re looking for a gastiniza,” we reply and continue to follow the jeep. Unexpectedly, a car overtakes us. “There’s no Gastiniza!” shouts the driver and tells us we’re pedaling in the wrong direction. “Follow me, I’ll take you there,” he offers. We briefly consider what to do with the gentleman who is driving ahead of us in his jeep and decide to turn back. Just a hundred meters back, the young man shows us a grey office complex. “There she is,” he says and disappears. “And this is supposed to be a gastiniza?” wonders Tanja. “I’ll go in and check the place out,” I reply, leaning my completely dusty bike against an equally ugly concrete wall and dragging myself up the steps in the 50-degree sun. “Where are they from? I need your passport. Yes, we have rooms. The double room 1150 roubles, (26 euros) deluxe 2,500 roubles”, (57 euros) the woman behind her glass pane rattles off, quite smugly. I make an effort to be very friendly and explain that we have two bikes that need to be in the house overnight. “I can’t,” the gray-haired woman sobers me up. “But please. We’re very tired and we can’t leave our bikes outside under any circumstances,” I reply. “Well then, you can park your bikes where the building materials are,” she relieves me, pointing to a pile of plasterboard and other stuff. “Costs an extra 100 roubles,” she adds. “But why? We didn’t have to pay for our bikes anywhere in Russia,” I try to argue. “Here you go,” she smiles at me. Then the hotel cleaning lady shows me the room. I need all my strength to heave myself up to the third floor of the super-ugly stairwell. “Oh, Tanja won’t like having to carry all our stuff up here,” I think to myself. “Please follow me,” says the Siberian, turning into a corridor that is currently being restored. Straw and plaster are hidden behind plasterboard. Just like they built here 30 or maybe even 60 years ago. All the scrap is simply covered with plasterboard. “We can only hope that the bunker doesn’t simply collapse at some point,” I think. At the end of the long corridor, the lady opens a door and I stand in our modest chamber. The setting sun beats down with full force. Estimated temperature 38 to 40 degrees. Two modest beds, an equally modest but old table, an even more modest chair and a lost wardrobe whose rickety doors are held shut with two nails. “And I thought the accommodation on the main tourist route to Baikal was a dream. Rarely have I made such a misjudgement,” I whisper. “Otschin scharka” (“Very hot”), I say with a suffering expression. “Da, scharka” (“Yes, hot”), the woman agrees with me and makes her way back downstairs. I follow her and tell the ladies at reception to take the room.

Tanja, who has almost melted away in the evening heat, is happy not to have to go any further. “That would have been really hard,” she says. We bring our bikes and equipment from the street into the vestibule of the office building. While I lock our bikes, cover them with the green foil and carry some of the saddlebags upstairs, Tanja takes care of the paperwork. When we finally get to the room, it’s 10:30 pm. “Now to archive the pictures, enter the log data into the laptop, write a short report on today, eat and have a beer,” I say. “Okay, you start with that. I’ll see if I can find something for dinner in the supermarket next door,” Tanja replies and leaves our accommodation again.

Tanja

We have the choice

As we sit in Ivan’s car, I feel quite funny. It’s funny because, in good health and with functioning equipment, we actually get a lift. Something like this would never have happened to me a few years ago. I would have wanted to prove to myself and to us that I could conquer this route under my own steam. “Thank heavens we humans are evolving and today I was able to accept this offer,” my thoughts run through my head. “We would probably have been forced to get a lift after this horror”, I continue to think… “Because then something would have broken… Anyway, now we could make ourselves comfortable until we arrive in Tulun. But that doesn’t feel right either.” Just as I look out of the window, another feeling rises in me, the feeling of the joy of cycling, traveling and collecting experiences. How great it feels to sit relaxed in front of the tent at the end of a day’s cycling, the bikes casually parked in front of us and gazing romantically into the sunset. A cup of tea in hand, reviewing the day’s experiences with Denis and living in the moment. “A shower is at least twice as much fun when we’re really dusty,” I grin at the thought. A cold beer at the end of a hard day’s cycling also tastes at least twice as good. Thank you Ivan for your great help and the opportunity to choose.

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