Mountains are getting higher and higher

It snows again in the morning. This time the weather forecast was not reliable. The master has woken up again and is apparently completely confused because of his vodka consumption. The icy cold blows at our backs from the north with full force. After Bayangol, we cross the tracks of the Trans-Mongolian Railway. When the train driver sees us, he sounds his horn. Then we have to struggle up the mountains again. It takes us hours to conquer the first ridge. The effort is beyond description. Now, at the end of the stage, it gets really tough again. It was only thanks to our good physical condition that we were able to complete this mountain marathon. Stoically, we drive our horses up the mountain meter by meter. We have long since given up longing for a straight plain behind the next mountain, the next pass, where the wind drives us along. It’s all illusion, fantasy, an unrealistic dream. Even though since Ulan Ude, over 500 kilometers ago, we were told time and again that we wouldn’t have to climb any mountains on this route. Even though the Mongolian customs officer at the border said that the road was flat and without any significant elevations as far as Ulan Bator. We face the climbs with composure. The journey continues at just five km/h. As our thighs pound the pedals, our lungs spew white breath into the atmosphere. Pulling on the handlebars makes our neck muscles tense and although our bodies are screaming for a break, we can’t stop because of the cold wind coming from Siberia. Our functional clothing, soaked with sweat from the drudgery, keeps us warm, but the wind is like an icy breath due to the wetness and freezes us even at short stops. Yesterday we were at just over 1000 meters, today the altimeter shows 1150 meters. Only rarely do we find ourselves below 800 meters. It seems to be going up every day now. Snow lies to the left and right of the road. Thank goodness the asphalt is clear. The sun has licked the overnight snow and ice off the bitumen. After three hours of constant climbing, our energy reserves are running low. We stop at the side of the road to get something to eat. Although the sun is shining, the thermometer is only at seven degrees. We find some shelter from the bitingly cold wind in the ditch. Suddenly, a motorcyclist comes roaring over the ridge. “Judging by all the luggage, it’s a European,” Tanja suspects. In fact, the man stops his machine. “Hello, my name is Kosta and I’m from Bulgaria. What are you doing here in the middle of nowhere?” he greets us. We learn that Kosta has been on the road for three months and has covered 18,000 kilometers. “It’s only a third of my planned route. I hope winter doesn’t get in the way,” says the very friendly and extremely likeable man. “I am an artist. I’ve worked for Intel for the last few years and quit my job despite my good income. That can’t be life, just working all the time. I followed my instincts, bought the machine and set off on this journey after a short period of preparation. Even though it’s exhausting, I like this way of life. I’d like to make a living from traveling like you,” he says thoughtfully. “I write for my own blog. Can I use my video camera to film an interview with you?” “Gladly”, we reply, even though we are now shivering from the cold. After the interview, we sit down together in the ditch to get away from the biting masters. We share our delicious cookies with Kosta and learn from him that he has met up with his Russian friend in Ulan Bator. “Like you, he’s also out and about on his bike. Unfortunately, he has inflamed his knees because of all the mountains. Even after a week’s break, he’s not able to walk without pain. Now the poor guy has to cut his cycling trip short. Hope you’re feeling better?” he asks. “My knees have also been complaining for some time. Because of a fall, my left knee has taken over from my right. Now they both hurt. But I’m sure we’ll make it to Ulan Bator,” I reply confidently, thinking of the cyclists we’ve met so far. In fact, it cannot be taken for granted that everyone who gets on their bike will reach their destination. On Olkhon Island we met the Buryat who had his bike stolen. Just yesterday we made the acquaintance of the young Frenchman whose bike simply collapsed under him. In Sühbaatar we met two Scotsmen who were traveling from Irkutsk to Ulan Bator on their lightly packed bikes. When the front rack of Rob’s bike broke and blocked the tire, he crashed. In the process, he slammed into the rear tire of his girlfriend, who was riding in front of him, knocking her off her bike as well. Kate hit her head on the asphalt and broke her helmet in two. Thank God only the helmet was broken and not the head. Having escaped with minor grazes and bruises, the two of them are now on the same route as us. However, if nothing has come up, they should have reached Ulan Bator by now.

As Kosta bids us farewell, he gives us a few packs of mashed potatoes and a Russian condensed milk. “You need that yourself,” Tanja says in a friendly dismissive tone. “No, I try to avoid camping as much as possible. I can always reach a guesthouse or accommodation by motorcycle.” “Why don’t you give it to someone who needs it more than we do? You’re sure to find someone,” Tanja replies. “No, I won’t find one. Maybe you’ll meet someone who needs it,” he says. We say thank you and hug each other goodbye, then we go our separate ways. While Kosta continues on his bike towards Siberia, we pedal our bikes south towards the capital of Mongolia. Like steam locomotives, we continue to expel white breath and keep our pedal cranks turning with maximum effort to get our heavy companion up the mountains. At the side of the road lies a stinking horse carcass on which wild-looking dogs are eating their fill. We stop for a few minutes on one of the passes. I discovered a few historic, millennia-old stone circles not far from the road. Despite enormous knee problems, I hobble over to take a few pictures. Then it goes on. Because of our wet clothes and exhaustion, we don’t want to spend the night in the tent at minus five degrees, and on the side of the road at that. After more than six hours of energy expenditure, our speedometers show 40 kilometers per day. “Another 20 kilometers and we should reach the village of Bornuur,” I try to motivate us. “And you mean there’s an inn there?” asks Tanja, breathing heavily. “Who’s to know? I can only hope,” I reply. 30 minutes later, we stop our bikes in front of an oversized advertising sign. “Take a look at this. It says that it’s only 3.5 kilometers to a tourist resort. It’s a gravel road in a different direction, but I’m sure there’s a nice room there where we can warm up. What do you think? Should we give it a try?” “I don’t know. I can’t decide anything at the moment. Maybe the mileage isn’t right? It wouldn’t be the first time,” Tanja replies, tired and shivering from the cold. “There on the hillside, below the wooded area, that could be it,” I say, pointing to a group of buildings that is difficult to make out. “Hm, it looks like it’s a steep climb up the mountain. Will we make it?” Tanja ponders. As we stand there trying to think a sensible thought, a car pulls up next to us. A man and a young woman get out. They are delighted to see us and take photos of us with their cell phones. “Do you speak English?” I ask. “A little,” the girl replies. “Is there a hotel in Bornuur?” “No, definitely not.” Meanwhile, Tanja digs her cell phone out of her handlebar bag and tries to call the number on the billboard. We actually have radio contact out here and someone answers. “Yes, we have a room,” we hear, whereupon we decide to take the 3.5 kilometer detour via the gravel road. As soon as the main road is behind us, our tires bump over the rough ground. The road immediately starts to climb, much steeper and meaner than it looked from the road. Hundreds of goats and sheep cross the path, bleating and mowing. The last rays of sunlight become shorter and shorter until they retreat behind the mountains like dying arms. If we thought it was cold before, we are taught otherwise at this moment. The thermometer instantly drops from eight degrees plus to one degree minus. The master is now showing a soon to be dangerous side, because we have the feeling that he wants to freeze the world. We know that minus one degree is not an extreme temperature and attribute the icy cold we feel to our state of mind, exhaustion and wet clothes. While Tanja pushes her bike up the hill in slow motion, I stay in the saddle and pedal my riese und müller at about four kilometers per hour. Getting off and pushing is now impossible for me. As soon as I try to walk, my knee joints lock completely. It feels as if someone is sticking a one-rod into the gearbox. So I pedal and pedal and hope the incline doesn’t force me off the bike after all. In fact, the mileage on the advertising sign is a hoax, because my tires only move through the entrance gate of the facility after five kilometers. Breathing heavily, I stop next to a house 70 minutes after setting off from the road sign. Three men are busy loading an old truck with partly indefinable stuff. “Is this the hotel?” I ask. “No, up there,” they reply, pointing to a large and beautiful wooden house, at the foot of which are a number of yurts. A concrete road with a gradient of around 14% leads steeply uphill for at least another two hundred meters. “We’ll never make it,” I say out loud, to which the Mongolians look at me in amazement. After admiring my bike for a moment, they continue their work. A woman brings a large plastic bag out of the house and hands it to one of the men. He pulls out a severed goat’s head, blood dripping from its neck onto the concrete messenger. A boy about four years old stands next to them and watches the men. “Huuaaa!” shouts the man with the goat’s head and suddenly stretches the bloody body part with the glassy eyes towards the boy. “Hi, hi, hi,” the little boy amuses himself completely unafraid, whereupon the man also laughs and throws his head in a high arc into a rusty barrel on the loading area of the truck. Then he pulls more heads out of the bag, which also end up in the garbage can. In the meantime, I lean my bike against the wall of the house and go to the front gate to see where Tanja is. She is still pushing her Roadtrain towards her destination, step by step, as if she were climbing Everest, putting one foot in front of the other. I would love to rush towards her, but my knees won’t let me. So I have no choice but to wait.

“We have to go up there?” she asks as she comes through the gate, breathing heavily. “Yes. I just don’t know how yet. I think we can only make it if we join forces and have to walk the route twice,” I think, looking at the Mongolians who are loading their truck with the unconventional load. “I’ll see if they’ll help us,” I say, following a sudden flash of inspiration. “Gladly,” they offer, interrupting their work and helping Tanja and me push our sumo bikes up to the hotel. Once we reach the top, we give our two helpers a pack of cigarettes and a cigar. “Baierlaa” (thank you), they say happily and run back down the slope.

Unsuspecting that we have reached one of the most beautiful yurt hotels in the country by pure chance, we ask for the room rate. We hear “115,000 Tugrik” (55 euros) and are shocked by the high figure as the hotel accommodation for the last few days was less than half that amount. Because the cheaper yurts are fully booked for tonight by a tour group, we are forced to take a room. The manager offers us a small heated room with a bunk bed for 66,000 Tugrik. (31,50 Euro) Our bikes are quickly stored in a large garage. In the room, we tear off our wet and sweaty clothes and, after a shower in the corridor, put on dry ones. Then we go to the restaurant, where the food is absolutely fine in terms of price and tastes excellent. As we sit in the beautiful, very tasteful Mongolian Secret History Camp and enjoy the delicious food half-starved, our bodies slowly warm up again. Outside, the master whistles around the house and has no chance of blowing his icy breath through our marrow and bones. The temperature quickly drops back to minus five degrees, which is why thin layers of ice form over the puddles and small lakes. “Despite the effort, it was a good decision to take the detour to this tourist camp,” says Tanja. “Yes, it was a good decision,” I reply, yawning and happy not to have to sleep outside tonight.

We look forward to your comments!