China to the UK by bike - Chapter 2

Everything hurts

Horses became a common sight on the Kazakh steppe

It was a relief to leave China. The border was the most stressful I experienced. It took three hours to get through the checkpoint on their side, despite me being the only traveller in the building! They checked every nook and cranny of my bike, the guards ripped my passport a little, and then the immigration officer almost stopped me leaving because of the tear they had created. She questioned my visa, as my work visa had been cancelled as per Shanghai procedure and a temporary visa issued in its place. I was incredibly glad I was only leaving the country, had I been trying to get in I surely would have had no chance.

On the other side of the border it could not have been a different story. The Kazakhs clearly wanted to exert a bit of revenge for the inconvenience their citizens must suffer trying to cross into China to trade. The border guards were all god-like in stature and appearance, 190cm or taller, with huge muscles threatening to break out of their pristine military uniforms. As the bus of travellers arrived (it was forbidden to walk the 5km across the border), the guards shouted ushered all the Kazakhs to the front of the immigration queues, leaving the Chinese to wait behind. However, as soon as one of the guards saw me with my bike, his eyes lit up. After some handshakes, a lot of admiring the bike and some short conversations about English football, I was pulled to the very front of the queue, much to the annoyance of the old Kazakh women who were regrettably made to wait as a result. The rest of the process was a dream - more handshakes with every border guard along the way, more requests to see a British passport, and I was through. However, I wasn’t prepared for what I would find. I had expected a few places to change money and a few food stands at the very least. But what I found was… nothing. Nothing at the border, and as I would find over the next two days of riding, nothing except one petrol station for the next 200km.

Camping by the side of the road, with the Kyrgyz mountains behind. Remote but beautiful.

But I was happy. I felt great to be out of China, and as I camped by the side of the road after doing 200km on the bike along flat fast roads, I felt so free. I even managed to find a couple of bars of signal - happily my Chinese phone number still worked here - and call Turan. Hearing her voice I felt so emotional. Up until this point I didn’t know if I would even be able to cross the border, but having done so it felt like all our plans were coming together. One of the hardest parts was done. Now the dream of seeing her again soon in Türkiye was one step closer to becoming reality.

Another 190km the next day brought me back down to earth - hard. The way was not as smooth anymore, following gravelled back roads through villages. And I had my first experience of what would become my biggest challenge throughout Central Asia and Eastern Europe: dogs. In Europe, we are used to dogs being kept as companions and pets - not so here. Everywhere east of Georgia, they were guard dogs, and unleashed guard dogs at that. Going past a farm gate early in the second day I got my first taste of what I would be in for multiple times a day, every day for the next 4,000km. A dog came tearing out of the driveway, snapping at my heels and trying to get some kind of purchase on my leg as I shouted at the top of my voice and pedalled as fast as I could to get away. The farmers looked on, bemused, too distracted by the fact they had seen a foreign cyclist laden with bags, a sight they had probably never before seen, to worry about that cyclist’s safety in the face of their dogs.

By the time I reached a hotel in a town just outside Almaty, the capital, that evening, I was emotionally and physically wrecked. The sound of barking haunted me, and my body was in pieces. I was fit enough to cover huge mileage on the bike at a good speed, but by back, neck, arms, everywhere ached. Being hunched over a bike is a position it usually takes time to get accustomed to. I had no time - I had two months to get back, and couldn’t afford to ease into it gently. So I had to accept that the next week or so was going to be agony as my body adjusted.

To top it all off I was sick, the inevitable consequence of sharing a train carriage with hundreds of others for 50 hours in China. My throat ached, and the dust from the roads only exacerbated the problem. Voice messages I sent at that time sound like I’m on my death bed when played back, and I could tell Turan was worried about me when I called her in the evenings - this was supposed to be the trip of a lifetime, I should be enjoying myself, not sounding like I was struggling to survive.

But while I may not be the fittest cyclist around, I do have a strong will and determination to keep going, honed in the mountains of the Lake District where I grew up. I battled on every day, getting up early to allow me time to cover what had become a new target in my head: 100 miles, or 160km, a day. And there were good times even in that first week. The locals were incredibly friendly, often stopping to ask what I was doing, where I was going, or to offer to buy me some food to sustain me on my way. The views of snow topped mountains overlooking the Kazakh steppe when I camped at night were stunning, and the Silk Road cities of Taraz and Shymkent were exotic to my eyes, and held the chance to taste a multitude of dates, sugared peanuts and other sweet meats that my sweet tooth craved. Also, overall I was lucky with the route. Kazakhstan is huge and sparsely populated, meaning the few roads that exist are effectively highways. It didn’t make for the most interesting riding, but it was certainly quick. In the first seven days I covered 1,300km, and found myself already close to the Uzbekistan. Setting off on the eighth day for another near-200km race for the border, I was upbeat. It was really starting to feel like two months was achievable.