Plates

The smoke from the large coal-fired power station, which stretches across the beautiful 23-kilometre-long Lake Gusinoos, tells me that the master is up to his mischief again. Although we spent the whole night hiding from him in the Gastiniza room and didn’t even mention him by name behind closed windows, he apparently knows which direction we’re heading in today. Before we leave the ugliness of Gusinoozersk, which lies in a fantastically beautiful valley in the Chamar-Daban mountains, we visit a supermarket to stock up on food for the journey to the border. “It’s hard to live here. After all these years, I only get a pension of 5,000 roubles,” an old man tells me while I’m looking after the bikes and Tanja is in the store. “What was your profession?” “I drove trucks all my life. I’ve seen a lot of our former Soviet Union.” “Have you also been to Mongolia?” “Of course I have. Very often.” “Oh, that’s good. Then you must know if there are many mountains on the way there?” “Mountains?” “Yes. Mountains are very strenuous for a cyclist,” I explain, pointing to our heavily laden steeds. “Well, you’re in luck. There are no more mountains from here,” his statement relieves me.

As soon as we have left the little town behind us, the road leads up the highest mountain we have had to climb since Krasnoyarsk. “That can’t be right? This isn’t a mountain? What kind of nonsense did the truck driver say?” I grumble as we push our Intercontinental meter by meter uphill. We have just reached the highest point when the master blows in our faces. We slowly let our bikes roll back into one of the beautiful valleys at an altitude of around 500 meters. Then we reach the small town of Novoselenginsk, which is marked just as large on our inaccurate Russian road map as the ugly town of Gusinoozersk. “It’s only a village,” says Tanja. “That’s right, I would never have thought it possible. It’s a good thing we did the shopping this morning,’ I reply. In bright sunshine and around 22 degrees in the shade, we take a break at the edge of the village. Because of the master, we are exhausted after just 23 kilometers. I lie on our tarpaulin and watch the cows graze. Suddenly I notice large fountains of dust merging with the blue sky on the horizon. “The asphalt seems to end back there,” I say. “Hopefully only for a short distance,” Tanja replies. “Yes, we don’t have much leeway left. It’s still over 100 kilometers to the border and we have to be there the day after tomorrow. In the current conditions, we can’t manage more than 50 kilometers a day. So we can’t let anything get in the way. Especially no gravel roads which, with a negative master, also stretch over 800-metre-high mountains,” I ponder.

A little later, we bump over the rough gravel at around five km/h. Cars shoot past us from time to time. They show no consideration, envelop us in clouds of dust and their bikes send the stones flying. Suddenly my bike starts to lurch. “Must be the poor surface,” I wonder as seconds later it starts to scrape loudly and violently. “Please don’t break a spoke,” it flashes through my brain. I dismount and see the dilemma. “Totally flat!” “What did you say?” asks Tanja. “My rear tire is completely flat. I can’t even push the bike to a protective spot. That would ruin the coat.” “You mean you have to fix the flat tire here on the spot?” “Yes,” I reply and start to unload the bike. As the gravel strip lies on a man-made embankment to cross the surrounding marshland, we are now forced to spread a sheet of plastic over the coarse, dusty surface to prevent the dirt and dust from penetrating the coat. I dismantle the rear end of the bike, take out the tire and put in a new tube. “Now we only have one new spare inner tube. I should mend the two old inner tubes at the next opportunity,” I say. When I put the coat on, I notice that it is completely worn out and therefore unusable. “I don’t think so. The short distance was enough to destroy the coat,” I say, startled. “How?” “Well, the rough stones, the rim and the load of the wheel wore down the coat when the air escaped.” “Do we have a spare coat?” asks Tanja a little nervously. “We have. For 14,000 kilometers already. So you can see how important it is to take enough spare parts with you. Even if they are heavy. But the time will come when they’re needed,” I say and unpack the Marathon Extreme from Schwalbe. While I chew on the dust and gravel, the cars race past. Stones fly through the air. We hope not to be hit by them. Particularly dangerous are the fast four-wheel drive vehicles that plow through the gravel with their rough tires. The drivers keep honking and waving. None of them stop to ask if we need help.

1 ½ hours later, we are back in the saddle of our steeds to drive them over the gruesome ground. Our muscles pump blood through our veins, our lungs inhale fine dust. We cross the wide Selenga river, which winds its way towards the Baikal, over a makeshift bridge. Then we are gifted with asphalt again. After a few more mountains over 800 meters high, we reach the village of Poworot. Here, too, we only come across a small village without any overnight accommodation. When the sun is already low, after more than nine hours and only 50 kilometers per day, I discover a camp site. We quickly push our riese und müller off the road over a sandy ditch behind sheltering trees. As soon as we come to a standstill, we are attacked by thousands of tiny little flies that can drive you mad in a short space of time. As they fly down our throats even while we are breathing, we are constantly choking on them. They crawl into every hole and orifice and constantly choose suicide. They even rush into your eyes and if you have to blink, they will remain dead on your eyelids. A real nightmare. We remember our expedition to Australia. To the millions of flies that were there and take it as easy as possible. To protect ourselves, we pull a fine fly net over our heads. That brings us a little relief. “I think there are mosquitoes mixed in there too,” Tanja says, scratching violently. “Could be. They use the mini flies as camouflage. Clever, those fucking creatures,” I say. We quickly set up the tent, hide our bikes under the green tarpaulin as usual and take refuge in the small awning. As soon as the last rays of sunshine have hidden behind the mountains, it gets really cold. The last few nights have been around minus one to zero degrees. Today we are again far too exhausted to eat anything. While Tanja’s cold has subsided, the viruses have chosen me as their new victim. Sneezing and blowing my nose, I sit on my sleeping bag, rub my knee and hope to make it to the border.

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