Travelogue

Here are just few notes from this brief, misfortunate but still worthwile trip.

26.6.2005.
Life hasn't changed much here in Kashi. After 1 year I am sitting again opposite the Seman Binguan and looking at the familiar sight of Uigur men getting progressively drunk and mildly aggressive - but never beyond the point of physical conflict. It all usually ends with a piss at the tree on the other side of the street and a wobbling walk back home. I should be going to bed myself, but the prospect of the big adventure which starts tomorrow keeps me awake despite the three sleepless days which I spent criss-crossing the Western and Eastern Paleartics. In the morning I wake up at 8:00, assemble the bike by 9:00 and get ready by 10:00, so a plan of a monster 200 km starting day has already gone down the drain. Even with this late start, I caught myself half-asleep on the bike and several times I gave myself a big slap. The problem that occupied my mind for the first two days was how to fix the rack bolts which were constantly loosening. If this happens already on asphalt, then what could I expect on the horror of the road 219? Finally in Yarkant I bought a big screwdriver and few spare bolts and the problem vanished. This part of the road consists of long desert stretches between poplar-lined oases. It is essential that you stock with water regularly, as I realized too late, with just 1 liter on the verge of the heat stroke in the mildly heated Taklamakan oven blowing hot wind instead of refreshing breeze. I rode topless until the evening and slept right under the stars, braving few lonely mosquitoes rather than the suffocating heat of the tent.
The next day was quite similar - hot and flat. For two days now I've been puzzled by the sight of a number of streams and two or three enormous rivers. Huge amount of water was coming from the mountains and I was afraid that the highlands were flooded and impassable. In the afternoon of the second day I was standing beside the significant road stone: G 219, km 1. The ouverture was over.

29.6.2005.
The km 93 stone marks the end of asphalt - finally the adventure starts. Slowly the road rises and climbs the first pass. Just above 3000 m, it was rather easy and joyful. And the downhill was exceptional. Not too fast - 26 km/h was maximum that I allowed, I was still sceptical how my thin tyres would react. To make it more fun, I raced with the red truck carrying the road crew. Down at the valley there was another pleasant surprise: asphalt returned. This was really a cream on top of this fantastic day: smooth riding aided by the tailwind up the valley of a raging river which claimed several bits of a newly constructed road. The delightful ride lasted almost to Kudi, where, 5 km before the village one big stream blocked the passage. After consulting two shepherds, I decided to wait until morning when the water would presumably drop.
Kudi - the place of my fears was ahead of me. If they turn me back at this checkpoint, the great adventure would turn into a dull vacation. I stopped in the village for a lamb soup and water refill. 500 m further there was a red-white barrier and seemingly deserted booth. I tried to sneak around the barreir and was stopped by three fierce dogs. Then a young soldier came shaking his head, saying the word I'd rather not hear: "Permit". I kept the calm and said I'd show my papers in the booth. There, a senior officer came and after browsing through my passport for half a minute, he said "hao". The young soldier raised the barrier and I raced beneath it holding the passport in my teeth. Yesssssss, Tibet, here I come! The feeling pushed me 30 km upward, until the hairpin dirt road of Chiragsaldi pass reminded me that I was at the altitude above 4500 m, that I had a gearing of a road bike and that my acclimatisation was totally lacking. After only 57 km I was dead tired, and when I came to the RRS, I decided to make it my home for today.
During the night I was suffocating like a fish on a shore, had hardly had any sleep and in the morning I noticed some symptoms of altitude sickness: dizziness, headache, high hart beat rate and - scary - a hazy eyesight. I continued slowly up to the summit (around 4900 m) and the symptoms started to disappear. Downhill was fun again, I was swerving, vasling, dancing, joying with incredible sights of amazing landscape of colorful cliffs and river beds.

2.7.2005.
The following days were rather undescriptive. The characteristic was somewhat depressing weather. Gray clouds hanging close to the ground, frequent rain during the night and several rain, snow or hail storms during the day, which usually left me soaked. I met another cyclist, a Chinese Michael Liu who had about 5 times as much luggage as myself, all complete with the steam pot, where he cooked glass noodles with pork rolls - a genuine Mandarin delicacy out of a military rations, which we devoured in the evening and the next morning, complemented with delicious stewed lichee. Thanks Michael!

5.7.2005.
It was the most miserable day of the trip. I started with 12 km climb up the pass at 5050 m, the one that brings you into Aksai Chin. The day seemed good at that moment, despite some steep sections where I chose to push the bike. At the top the sky closed and then opened. The rain storm battered from ahead. After the brief sun interval it continued from behind. I was soaked, my gloves wet, and hands cramped started firing unusual nerve signals. When I came near Tianshuihai I was lost between two roads, pedaling forth and back in the rain, searching for a refuge. Finally I decided to retreat into an abandoned building. To came to it I had to drag the bike up a muddy escarpment resulting in clogged brake bridges and a kg of mud on my shoes. I was now under the roof thoughtless, soaked to the bones and dirty. I looked around the house: dust, rat shit, rotten potatoes and a smell of death: there was no way I would spend the night here. I waited for the storm to stop. Half an hour later I returned to the road, acquiring another kg of mud on my bike and shoes in the process. After 15 min another storm began, but now, I had it over the edge, I was furious. In the middle of the rain I put up a tent and crawled in trying not to worry how I will be able to continue tomorrow. From the warmth of my sleeping bag the things didn't look that desperate.

6.7.2005
The following days were similar: a wet-dry combination. I was mad at the storms and rejoicing when the skies cleared. In the dry intervals I enjoyed a fantastic sense of freedom in this vast, desert, silent scenary.

8.7.2005
This was a sad day. The day I had to break the trip. I woke up in the military tent in Sumxi. A dozen of soldiers were still sleeping inside. The snow was falling while I oiled the chain and then ate the breakfast, trying to delay the departure in such a weather. When the snow stopped I went towards the highest pass of the whole West Tibet road, at 5250 meters (some say even 5400 m). The rains from previous days left a mark on the road. There were lot of muddy stretches, including the one at the very top of the pass where dozen of trucks were stuck. I elegantly walked past them and resumed downhill. Yesterday I entered Tibet, which looked considerably greener than what I was used to in Xinjiang. Then again, a storm. I tried to hide from it behind the escarpment, which sometimes works if the rain is swept by the wind. Not this time. There was a tent in the distance and I approached. A young women with a child on her back invited me inside. My first encounter with Tibetan nomads. Inside the tent it was heaven: dry, warm, soft carpets on the ground and warm bowl of something that I hoped was a yak-butter tea. It was good. The old man, with a look of wisdom, indifference or ignorance, poured the tea, swinging his little praying wheel. Just the two young men who were teasing each other couldn't fit into this joyful serenity. It was utterly un-Tibetan, I guess they were not past their initiation period. After a while the rain seemed to have stopped and I took a farewell. As many times before the clouds closed around me in a form of a horse-shoe, leaving bright skies ahead, which I chased into a drier land. I found an excellent secondary road that lead into a gentle decline. The tailwind was with me to give me speeds of up to 30 km/h and I started to believe that Domar is within the today's reach. Not only Domar: Ali and all subsequent places now started to seem attainable according to my plan. The world was good.
Suddenly I was lying on my back. A memory of a previous portion of a second was fading in my head - I just caught the thought that the bike was abruptly stopped and I was catapulted. I felt my legs were OK and I stood up. My left arm was OK too, I felt the pain in the right shoulder. I stripped the jacket and the jersey and saw that the shoulder joint was unusually displaced. I tried to swing it back into position, but it didn't work. I could not lift the bike with my right arm. I realized the game was over.

P.S. Two months later, having been thinking a lot about it, I'm certain now that the accident occured when - mostly due to lack of sleep and rest caused by poor acclimatization to high altitude - I lost consciousness for just a moment.