Tian Shan 12/20/2010Posted by mikeonbike in cycling, travel.
Tags: blizzard, camping, china, kazakhstan, mountains, tian shan, winter, xinjiang
Things changed after Uzbekistan. Nightfall became something ugly, the darkness was interminable. I couldn’t sleep. The sounds I’d always ignored now echoed through my tent, squeezing my throat tighter against a pounding heart. My nerves were shot.
Kazakhstan didn’t help. I’d only been in the country a few days when a car skidded to a stop in front of me. The driver stumbled in my direction until his nose nearly touched mine. He was yelling.
I remember wondering why liquor never stinks until it hits someone’s mouth.
When I turned away the man grabbed my beard and nearly pulled me off my saddle. I pushed his hand back, but when I started pedalling he threw me into a guard rail, bike and all. I think he startled himself sober because he just stood there gaping at me sprawled on the road.
I dusted myself off and biked away. I never saw the guy again.
There was no sense to be made of it, no lesson to take away. The randomness hit me harder than he ever could. It’s tough knowing that careful isn’t good enough. Sometimes strength or smarts don’t count for much. The world spins on dumb luck – the only thing we control is whether we want to take a ride.
I did when I left. Now I wasn’t so sure.
I thought about packing it in, boxing my bike and heading home to hide. I’d be secure in the road behind me, rolled into good days and bad, bound with all the faces in between. No one could take it away from me.
But that can’t work, at least not for me. I go crazy unless I have something to fight for. A chance to sit around and reminisce certainly isn’t it. I need the promise of what lies ahead, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to hand it over to some worthless thugs.
I made a choice that night. I will never go looking for trouble, but the next person to bring it will find all they can handle in me. I cut a branch from a tree and carved it into a billy club. It’s been strapped to my handle bars ever since.
I’ve only had to use it once, and perhaps that’s the strangest story of all. One night, after crossing the Chinese border, I heard a terrible crash in the woods. I squinted through the firelight until five figures emerged from the shadows.
At first I thought they were sheep late for the dinner bell. Then I saw manes and tusks and realized I was staring at wild boars. They sniffed and grunted, closing around me until the biggest one lowered its head and charged.
When I shone my flashlight in its eyes it stopped dead in its tracks. I grabbed my club and ran yelling through the trees, chasing it away. The others scattered in a squealing mess. They were not happy. For an hour I could hear them huffing, circling my camp. But they stayed away.
I wasn’t scared. I get animals – they play by rules, and even if they attack, there’s a certain fairness about them. That night made more sense than dozens that had come before it. I slept soundly. My nerves haven’t bothered me since.
Afterwards I made my way over the Tian Shan mountains, a range that began in eastern Kazakhstan and seemed to stretch on forever. It took me weeks to reach the top. Each day was colder than the last and the gaps between villages grew longer and longer.
The summit was a wasteland. At nearly 3,000 meters above sea level, I saw no trees, not a single hint of life. There was only a thick blanket of snow and a howling wind. The road was iced over so I joined vehicles in a snail’s pace as I walked my bike to the top.
It took me all day to get there, and as the daylight faded so too did my courage. The top of a mountain is a very bad place to spend the night. There’s no shelter, no firewood and the temperature drops much too fast.
I was frantic at the peak. I bundled myself in all of my clothes and started the descent as fast as I could pedal. It didn’t do any good. My shirts were frozen solid with the day’s sweat. I couldn’t stop shivering, couldn’t feel my hands or feet.
But sometimes dumb luck swings the other way. As the last traces of purple disappeared from the snow I spotted a three-building village in the distance. Those on the other side of the mountain had all been abandoned, but I didn’t care. This one was going to keep me warm.
The first building was a crumbling auto garage. I poked my head inside, ready to beg for a corner to lay out my sleeping bag. Instead an old woman put her hand on my shoulder and led me down a hallway with numbered doors. The place doubled as an inn for truckers.
My room had a wooden bed, a faded velvet card table and an old coal stove. I have never been so thankful in my entire life. A star was shining over me somewhere that night.
The next day I cycled 80 km over a plateau, never making it out of the snow or below the treeline.
But I’d been smarter about it. I was dry and wrapped in my warmest clothes – six shirts, two jackets, four pairs of pants and three sets of socks. I camped in a culvert to stay out of the wind. I had no reason to worry.
That changed in a hurry. By the middle of the night the wind became a gale and then a full blown blizzard. Snow whipped into the culvert, covering my tent, pressing down on all sides. I woke up half buried, sure that my tent was going to collapse.
As I opened the door, all the powder that I was going to brush away poured into my tent, falling over my sleeping bag and blanket. I got out anyways, trying my best to push the weight off the tent poles. I was covered in snow by the time I zipped everything shut. I knew I was in big trouble.
There was nothing to do but wait until morning when I hoped the storm would ease. It only got worse. At dawn I found one end of the tunnel completely blocked by snow and the other closing quickly. I dug my way out to get my bearings but couldn’t see a thing. It was a total white out.
My water and cooking fuel were frozen. I had no food and no idea how long the storm would last. If I stayed put, I would be trapped. I needed to get down the mountain, and fast.
Dragging my bike and gear through waist-high snow was almost impossible, but after three trips and a lot of cursing I managed to get everything back on the road. Thankfully the wind was going my way, so all I had to do was get myself in the saddle and steer.
I biked 60 km through the storm, never able to see more than a few meters in front of me. I had to use my boots to stop because my brakes were iced over. My gloves froze around my handlebars.
In all my winters on the Prairies, I’ve never seen another blizzard like it.
Halfway down the mountain I reached a town called Balguntay. The people there wore fall jackets. The earth was wonderfully brown. For the first time in days I saw trees and a river that flowed.
I didn’t have the energy to celebrate. There was no whoop, no fist pump. I just sat on a curb and buried my face in my hands.
Sometimes I don’t know if I’m doing everything right or making every mistake there is.
Snowflakes and flu bugs 01/12/2010Posted by mikeonbike in cycling, travel.
Tags: blizzard, compostela, couchsurfing, health, portugal, spain, winter
It seems those Basque-ards to the east have a lock on sunshine in Spain, and the country as a whole has provided more challenges than I ever expected.
First, and always most important for me, has been the weather. I chose the northern coast because it historically goes without snow in the winter. Most kids have never seen it and adults vaguely remember the white stuff from a storm that fell 20 years ago. It was a good plan, but now it´s buried somewhere near Vilalba under about a foot of powder. There I found myself in the middle of a full-scale blizzard – blinding snow, howling winds and Spanish drivers spinning summer tires to no avail.
Stranger than the surprise storm was the fact that the falling snow inexplicably made me happy. Giddy. It made me feel very much at home in a place where I have trouble using the payphones. The highways were completely empty and the weather wasn´t cold, so once I got started I found it was a perfect time for travelling, provided I cycled in a straight line and crossed my fingers on the hills.
On one of those hills I came upon a German cyclist making a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. His gear was ramshackle, his blue jeans soaked, and he was walking his bike because his feet were frozen. I liked him immediately. We cycled together for three days and partied until 5 a.m. to celebrate his arrival to Santiago. It was a crazy night that I´ll always barely remember.
Despite the fun, I never really felt at ease in Santiago. There were too many tourists looking up and too many locals looking down. I had no regrets about continuing south to Pontevedra, but on the way my stomach started doing flip-flops and my forehead was burning up. I thought I was just a bit hungover, but it wasn´t the same feeling at all. After my third mad dash to use the facilities at a coffee shop, it dawned on me that I might have a stomach bug.
And how. I spent the next two days sitting on the can with my head in a bucket, wishing that someone would do the right thing and shoot me. Luckily I´d arranged a CouchSurfing host several days earlier, so at the very least I had a comfortable and warm place to rest between yak attacks.
I look like a twig in the mirror, but after a bit of 7-Up and some toast this morning, I think I feel strong enough to take to the highway once more. I´m less than 60 km from Portugal, so I should be able to cross the border by this evening if all goes well.
This trip certainly isn´t getting any easier, but in a way that was never the point. Starting in Belgium, and now especially in Spain, I´ve stopped considering the trials as either good or bad. They´re temporary and that´s all. Lately I cycle the same whether I´m climbing a hill, facing the wind or dragging my bike through six inches of mud. I don´t know if that means my mind is clear or I´m a vacuous idiot, but it sure helps me stack up more kilometres.