I’m on the road! After months of daydreaming, planning and preparing I’m finally riding the M41, a.k.a. the legendary Pamir Highway -part of the ancient silk route. Although the word ‘highway’ insinuates a certain degree of modern engineering and maintenance, a large part of it seems untouched since the time Marco Polo passed through. But I guess it’s that extreme ruggedness, remoteness and raw natural beauty what attracts endurance adventurers, and fools like me, to these parts.

As the realisation of actually being here, on my own, pedalling towards this massive adventure slowly sinks in, I give a joyous cry amidst the chaotic traffic in the outskirts of Tajikistan’s capital Dushanbe. I’M RIDING THE PAMIR HIGHWAY, B*TCHES!

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My plan for the first few days on the bike is to take it easy and acclimatise to cycling in the sweltering heat and mountainous terrain. But that was before a friend at the hostel in Dushanbe told me about this great camping spot for the first night, around 80km out. On the pictures it looked like a lush, secluded meadow with a view. When he had jumped the fence to spend the night there, the owner of the lot happened to stop by and proved more than cool with the spontaneous bivouac. They even made a selfie together. So the spot ticks all the boxes. I quite like the idea of camping in paradise, so I pedal on. Around the 80k mark I start stopping, checking out, and asking around in my best Runglish. But many repetitions later; still no heavenly pasture.

After an hour of searching, dusk sets in and I feel completely exhausted from eating too little or cycling too much. Probably both. I have ended up in quite a populated area with no unused, quiet spots where I can pitch my tent. And when I do finally find something remotely suitable, the locals come running to warn me for snakes around this wasteland. Not ideal.

So I push on, now looking at people’s garden’s to stay in. As night sets in I get a bit desperate while shaking from the low blood sugar. Finally I find a sizable garden with some apple trees spread out where I could pitch my tent between. I anxiously bang on the steel gate. An old man with a grey beard opens and, after a quick game of explanatory Charades, lets me in. But as I am headed for his orchard to make quarters with my last strength, he insists I park my bike against a shed and join him in the outside eating area. He gives some brief orders to his daughter who immediately starts preparing tea and food. He doesn’t speak any English, and I quickly find the Russian travel dictionary I have brought is completely useless. But we manage to get our home countries, ages and family structures across. As I devour the food put in front of me, the widower in his 60ies just sits there with me, silently. Nodding and smiling every now and then until everything eatable has vanished. He has a Tadjik bed –a stack of mats with a sheet- made and it’s clear there is no way I will be sleeping outside.

His daughter now comes out with a wood fired bucket of water for me to wash off the dust, sweat and probably snot I’m covered in. Her husband pounces to operate a small sauce pan, pouring the glorious warmth over me at the side of a small stream running through the garden; their bathroom sink. I hit the hay teary eyed.

I am so, so grateful for this man and his family who took a bum on a bicycle into their homes without thinking twice. It makes me quietly reflect on how I treat the foreign strangers I sometimes see outside my supermarket or the train station. And about how it often scares me to offer them the same hospitality this old man showed me; inviting them into my home, feeding them, and just sit there together, silently.

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Leaving the gracious old man and his family I go on my way. The day starts off with smooth asphalt and I’m making good mileage. However, on the Pamir Highway disaster is always lurking around the corner. On a steep climb my chain suddenly runs off at the back and gets jammed between my cassette and spokes, while still moving forward with >115kg of bike, luggage and myself. The brute force damages my derailleur pretty bad, already beat up from the flight. Considering the violence I’m surprised it didn’t snap right off. I realise this could have very well been the end of the whole adventure, after just 1,5 days on the road… Relieved, but anxious for the rest of the trip, I continue. The roads will only get worse from here, and options for replacement parts are non-existent. So, until I have some time to properly adjust the derailleur, the granny gear is off limits.

The potholes in the asphalt grow increasingly larger, until there is no more tarmac to be seen; just loose sand with scattered rocks. And steep as hell -especially without the lightest gear at my disposal. Although this is probably what I came to the Pamirs for, I’m already regretting it after a few k’s. According to the map I’m not too far from a village where I can have a well-earned siesta, but I make very slow progress and soon find myself battling up the track in midday heat. With the path winding up the barren mountainside completely exposed to the scorching sun, stopping for a break here actually makes me hotter without the airflow from moving. But just as my heart rate reaches 184bpm and I feel like my fragile 30-year-old body is going to explode from the heat, I happen to pass a tree. The first shady spot in miles, so I gladly take a minute to catch my breath. Back on the bike it turns out the worst is behind me, and make it to town in one piece.

At the first shack -annex lunch place- I see, I run into Swedish couple Robin and Ida, and Brit Andy. I met them at the hostel in Dushanbe a few days back, and invite myself to join them for a plate of unidentifiable goat meat and melon for desert. As it turns out the establishment owner deems this the perfect opportunity to double his children’s college fund. And as it’s too hot for a heated bargaining discussion in a language we don’t speak, we take our losses and bike off together.

Just before dusk sets in Robin scouts a scenic camping spot on a cliff, overlooking the river. After pitching our tents the Swedes reveal themselves to be the sure winners of future TV format ‘Campground Master Chef’, preparing an authentic oriental dish with fresh lime juice, soy sauce and vegetables, on a single camping stove. Only the chopsticks are missing. To take the glamping level down a notch I go with camping classic ‘Undercooked pasta á la instant red sauce’. And after a long day of cycling it couldn’t have tasted better.

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The landscape transforms from rolling hills to rockier mountains, harbinger of what is to come. It’s mostly red sand and gravel road as we continue to cycle along the river, sometimes high above it with a pretty unforgiving slope to the right. Riding gravel with front panniers and a crammed handlebar bag makes for a bit of an unstable combination that keeps you on your toes. It reminds me of a story I read about a Belgian cyclist who tumbled over the edge. She was lucky to have a big rock just above the waterline ‘break her fall’, keeping the raging river from swallowing her up whole. She lived, but spent her holidays in a Tajik hospital. I think I’ll just listen to my wife back home and not try anything too stupid here.

At the end of the day dark clouds come rolling in and as I stop to put on my raincoat, a couple of kids run up to me and ask (scream demandingly) for a picture. The young brother is so excited he cannot stop jumping around and making funny faces, even after his older sister slaps him in the head. I leave them behind crying from laughter and in awe of their own image on an LCD screen. The pure joy.

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Looking at the daunting spike on the route altitude profile, I have already anticipated crossing Khaburabot pass will be one of the toughest days of the trip. It’s the first real test of our climbing legs, ascending >1700 meters to a total of 3253m (10,672 ft), whilst hauling up >50kg of bicycle, luggage and water. The path at times just consists of loose sand and rocks the size of infants’ heads, making your tires lose traction as if cycling up a slip ’n slide. In a 35 degree heat. It’s pretty brutal, but despite being one of the most heavy loaded and definitely least trained, I make it to the top first.

On the pass I feel mostly relieved, having risen to the first challenge. When I see Andy approaching I suddenly feel such a joy, being able to share this victory with someone else. Maybe it’s because I’ve been married a good 4 years now, but I had forgotten a bit what it is to be alone, and how some things are just better when experienced together. It reminds me of what cyclist Alex said in the hostel in Dushanbe, when I asked him what he had missed most on his long solo travels. “Community” he said.

We make camp at the first flat(ish) spot we can find on our way down, about 500m lower than the top. An effort to start acclimatizing for the much higher passes we will be seeing in the coming weeks.

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After a tough day of climbing it’s nice to have an easy start. Although descending over bumpy gravel roads with a heavy load isn’t exactly relaxing, you don’t have to pedal and still make good mileage. So that’s a win in my book. The landscape takes on brutalist shapes. We are mere ants, entering the gates of Argonath (had to look that one up myself as well).

Midday is blistering hot again as we arrive in the one street village of Kalai Khum. Here we bump into Wolfgang, a German cyclist in his fifties. He tells us about this area being the main trafficking route for Afghan opium. That explains the number of brand new 4x4’s, large Aviators and moustaches in and around town… At the heart of the place shines a black, glass hotel tower that seems fairly out of proportion to the number of travellers passing through here. But definitely a nice place for some ‘business’ negotiations. I mostly have eyes for the large, Occidental style supermarket fittingly named Europa. It’s the first place in almost a week that sells something other than the bare essentials. I buy some shit I don’t really need, just to feel ‘normal’ again. Weirdly fulfilling.

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Good morning Afghanistan! The sight of this infamous empire on the right side of the river will accompany me for the next 600 kilometres or so. It feels slightly surrealistic to be so close to this place you can literately throw a stone at it. Quite a bit less black smoke and gunshots than its reputation would make you believe though. But the road on that side, more like a motorcycle track, looks pretty rough, and that says a lot coming from someone in Tajikistan. I’ve made some promises back home not to do anything stupid, but I’m pretty sure swimming across the border illegally doesn’t fall in that category, so I’m scouting a suitable place.

It’s a breathtaking stretch of Pamir Highway. Slowly the broad Panj valley has transformed into a gorge where a narrow dirt road clings to the steep cliffs, defying the raging river at the bottom. In most places it’s so tight trucks can’t pass each other, so in broader sections you will see queues of trucks waiting until traffic from the opposite direction has passed. As a cyclist this means you have strings of roaring trucks coming from either direction, with the consequential clouds of dust and pitch black exhaust fumes. There are some steep sections where the overloaded Chinese trucks have complete destroyed the road and you’re riding through ankle deep loose sand. It gets the blood flowing when they plough passed you, full throttle, pushing you to centimetres from the powdery precipice. Just how I imagined Afghanistan would make me feel.

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Finally the canyon walls give way and we are treated to a beautiful valley featuring massive rocky peaks all around. Passing a police checkpoint we spot a shiny Hummer parked outside. Not sure who it belongs to, how on earth they could afford it, and what they’re doing hanging out at a customs station; but my compliments to whose job it is to keep it so shiny in this dustbowl. The perseverance of an artisan.

A beautifully paved road leads us up a little pass where we finally have phone reception again for some long overdue texting with home!

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We continue our way to Korogh, the first of only two ‘big’ towns (>5000 inhabitants) on the 1500km route. From what I’ve heard this is the only one you would want to stay more than a day, so I’ve scheduled a rest day here. But being back in a place with a hot shower, cold beer and rotisserie chicken from the market quickly leads me to extend with an extra one. As all dorm rooms of our hostel turn out to be booked, we set up our tents on the 2nd floor balcony. That means a ‘private room’ with all the facilities of the hostel; the best of both worlds!

During rest day -among cyclist more commonly known as ‘showering/shaving/grocery shopping/laundry/bike maintenance day’- Andy finds his steed’s back rim is splitting; cracks have formed around every single one of his spokes. Not great news, considering there is no way to repair or buy a new rim around here. And we’re about to head out into a vast unknown, of which we *do* know that the roads will be beyond brutal. He thinks about changing plans and continue to follow the M41 main road, as its surface is supposedly better and -more importantly- there is more traffic to hitch a ride when it all goes tits up. But in the end he decides to take his chances and go forth with the initial plan of the Wakhan valley detour. The spirit of a true adventurer, or madman.

The Tajik roads have taken their toll on my gear too: the constant pounding has shaken a screw loose of one of my brand new front panniers, resulting in losing a few parts that keep it stable. Nothing a ty-rap and some chewing gum can’t fix, fortunately. But there’s no McGyvering my spankin’ new ‘heavy duty’ solar panel back to life. It looks totally fine from the outside, but something inside the sealed off body must have broken. That means no electricity generation underway, a real blow for my thirsty cameras, gps watch and phone. Thanks to my friends from externebatterij.nl I do have a proper power bank with me, but I’m not sure that will hold enough juice for the long stretches without civilisation. In the words of late hero Kyle Dempster: “like any great adventure, things did not go as planned.”

With Swedes Robin and Ida having managed to get a new pump, our ways part here for now. I’m leaving tomorrow, and so is Andy. Although I enjoy cycling with him it’s good to head out on my own again; my goal for this trip. I’ll probably see him on the road again anyway, as we’re both heading for the illustrious Wakhan. Our Scandinavian friends decide to take a couple more days in Korogh, attempting to arrange their Chinese visas –officially only obtainable whilst residing in one’s home country. Always a fun game, attempting to trick ruthless regimes…

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Back on the road, solo! It was cool cycling with a group for a bit, but nothing beats the freedom of being on your own, stopping whenever you like and moving at your own pace. I’m now entering the illustrious Wakhan Corridor, junction of Tajikistan, Afghanistan, Pakistan and China. A dream come true!

Just before lunchtime I run into an Italian cyclist coming from the opposite direction, pushing his bike up the sandy track and we exchange information on the road ahead. “It is bad. Real bad. You will have a LOT of pushing to do in the Wakhan valley” he says, looking disapprovingly at my heavy loaded bike. He rides a lightweight mountain bike with suspension and only 2 panniers. I have a heavy duty steel trekking bike with 4 panniers and a big rack pack… But at least he doesn’t sound as furious as the Russian cyclist I met a few days back, who couldn’t stop cursing the roads and those who made them. So there’s still hope.

For lunch I find a nice patch of grass in the shade to eat my naan with Nutella and take a little nap. I am woken by Andy passing by, but decide to take it easy and leave half an hour later. Late afternoon I catch up with him taking pictures on the side of the road. The landscape and the light are magical, but it’s still a good 30k to the closest town, Iskashim. So we get back to it and finally make it to a big old Sovjet hostel, exhausted from the heat, uncountable climbs and a good 110 kilometres in the saddle.

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Day two in the Wakhan. The deeper I get into the valley, the rougher the roads. Around midday I try to escape the scorching sun in some sort of a Sovjet bus stop where I run into a groom, nervously sucking on a cigarette. He and his posse are on their way to the bride and guests in a big white Lexus (the local wedding vehicle standard) covered in lace ribbon, fake flowers and two massive plastic wedding rings on top. It would make a great episode of My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding, Wakhan edition.

My map hasn’t prepared me for a seemingly endless climb later that afternoon, with a deep gravel, washboard surface. When I finally reach the top, of what the topographer apparently doesn’t consider a highpoint of any sorts, I’m completely destroyed. I plump down on a rock besides the road and try to eat some sense back into me with a victory Snickers. It takes me half an hour to see the breath taking view I have over the Panj river. The Wakhan lives up to its reputation on every level.

Utterly exhausted and feeling like puking I reach a homestay where I meet Andy again. I’m so nauseous that I have a hard time getting (and keeping) any of the rice with eggs and naan in. An hour later, halfway through my plate I give up and hit the hay.

The next morning I feel like a wreck. And as the Wakhan doesn’t know any ‘easy days’ I decide to stay at the host family a bit longer. Andy continues onwards and I wave him goodbye with a bit of a heavy heart, knowing that I most probably won’t see him again this trip. I get back to bed, but during the day my condition worsens and I have heavy stomach aches.

The next day is even worse; I’m in constant pain and puke out everything I eat. The only thing I can do is lie down and keep hydrated, drinking the ORS I brought. Using hands and feet I attempt to describe my condition to my host family, and in reply they pick some terrible tasting herbs from their garden. To no avail. Then they bring out the mother of all Sovjet medicine; a large shot of vodka with what is at least a table spoon of salt. I coin this cocktail ‘Scorching Seawater’. Drinking alcohol on an empty stomach definitely makes me feel better, but after the buzz dies out the heavy pains are back, even worse than before. I’m laying down in a foetal position, praying for it to stop. My condition keeps worsening despite the local kill or cure remedies, and I can hear my host family worriedly whispering outside my room about what to do with me. They don’t own a car or any other means of transport to get me to a doctor, so I’m basically stuck here.

If reaching my limits ever had a heroic or aspiring ring to it, it sure as hell doesn’t now.

Laying in this shabby room, thousands of kilometres from home, staring at a ceiling for days and not being able to eat or communicate; I just feel so incredibly alone. The uncertainty of what’s wrong and how I’m ever going to get out of this is killing me. Having all the time in the world to go over the worst case scenario’s isn’t helping either.

The good news is I’ve stranded only a few kilometres away from the last ‘hospital’ for the next 200k’s or so. With my situation sort of stabilized the next day, I muster all my courage and strength, and cycle over. Wandering around the small complex of military style barracks, I manage to find a doctor that speaks some English. He lays me down on a worn waiting couch in his hallway that doubles as examination table, and quickly diagnoses ‘gastrit’. Something I’ve never heard of, and his English isn’t good enough to explain what it is exactly. But he writes me a prescription and strongly advises me to stay away from goat meat, if I have interpreted his bleating and fingers-as-horns impression correctly.

My ‘gastrit’, as it turns out, is an acute inflammation of the stomach’s lining. The combination of stomach acid running through this same space makes it…sub-optimal. That explains the burning pains, especially when consuming anything –in particular vodka with salt.

Unfortunately the medicine I need is not available at the hospital (the doctor wasn’t exaggerating when complaining about the place being low in supplies), so I’ll have to bike another 13k’s to the closest pharmacy over a terrible rocky road. As the little trip to the doctor has completely exhausted my energy reserves already, I cannot go other than back to the homestay and pray things get better…

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Looking at my schedule and knowing that my medicine should be available somewhere down the road, I decide to head out the next morning. Not having been able to eat for 3 days, I feel incredibly weak and am literally shaking on my legs trying to hold my packed bike up straight. The homestay is only about 50 metres off the main road down a little path, but I certainly wouldn’t have made it back up there without one the host family’s kids helping me push my bike.

The first 20k’s are tough as hell, getting back in the rhythm of demanding performance from my recovering body. Every bump in the tire deep pebble road feels like climbing mount Kilimanjaro. So I just make lots of stops to catch my breath and slowly but surely start eating some tea biscuits with honey that I buy passing a kiosk.

After a morning of cycling I make it to the pharmacy, that appears to be closed! But no way am I leaving without my medicine. So after harassing some passing locals they find someone, somewhere that seems to know what he’s doing. The guy gives me three types of medicine, without an information leaflet, and only one in packaging -that is in Russian… He tries to explain what to use when, and in which quantities but I don’t understand a word, so I just have him write some Cyrillic instructions on the prescription, hoping I will bump into someone along the way that can translate it.

I decide not to use my medicine right away as I have no idea what I’m taking, but it feels good to have it on me, should things go south again. Being able to hold in some calories again and knowing that I have a remedy in my panniers, the second half of the day feels considerably easier. Despite my current weakness I can’t describe how good it feels to be back on the road again, trading the dingy walls for some of the most beautiful views I can ever remember seeing. Fresh air and new eyes.

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The Wakhan valley is a bit of a dead end street; the closer you get to the end, towards the Chinese border, the rougher and quieter is gets. All normal vehicles must return the way they came, and only serious 4X4’s can challenge the rocky path climbing out of the valley, winding through the mountains back to the M41 highway. Well, and cyclists that is.

This connection section to the country’s main road easily has the worst roads so far from what I’ve heard, and not a single sign of civilisation for days. Just pure wilderness. It feels a bit risky in my current condition; still recovering massively from being sick and not eating, heading out into this remote area without any doors to knock on, should I collapse. The locals that I tell of cycling the stretch on my own like this, shake their heads. But there is no real alternative other than to go forward and give it what I‘ve got. Luckily I’m feeling a bit better and could hold in a bowl of noodle soup for dinner, but unsurprisingly I still have very little power.

Right off the bat it’s brutal; an incredibly steep ‘goatpath’ leads up the almost vertical mountains behind the last town. I had always perceived switchbacks as a means to gain altitude without having to make roads too steep, but the Sovjets clearly thought of them more as a lifehack to make roads even steeper and gain even more altitude. Of course, this road was initially constructed for military vehicles, so to a tank this might be a reasonable track. But a 4x4 that passes me by with a live goat tied to the roof is having a hard time getting up this gradient. Let alone a cyclist hauling up >50kg’s, running on Snickers. I have to push the bike up some sections that are just a bit too much in my current state, but eventually the gradient becomes single digit again and I can get back on. The loose sand with big rocks scattered has me staggering, slipping and sliding, forcing my toes to the ground for balance every couple of revolutions. It’s genuinely gruelling and I do my fair share of loud swearing when I’m not totally out of breath with my heartbeat banging against the inside of my temples. Early afternoon it finally flattens out into a bone dry, shadeless plateau. I had never thought washboard roads would be a refreshing relief, but compared to loose sand you can at least keep cycling. Asphalt might just be the clearest evidence there is a God.

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Not a living soul in sight. Just the rustling wind, a dusty track and sunrays beating down through the thin air. This section is pure desolation, and it’s absolutely gorgeous. The road is so bad that in many places parallel tracks have formed left and right, worn away by predecessors in 4x4’s, as even their suspended rides found the main path too rough.

After a half day long battle, traversing tracks from left to right in search of ridable surface, I make it to the foot of an 11km climb to Khargush pass at 4344m (14,252ft). The long, steady approach makes for a nice mental exercise in ‘just keep pedalling’ mode. About 9 kilometres in I take a breather right before a steep section, when a local sheepherder passes me by. I give him some candy and we talk/mime for a bit. He cannot believe I’m sleeping in a tent by my own without a fire, as he speaks of the wolves in these parts. I reckon they’ll have enough to eat in summer time –a heard of sheep for instance- before they’ll start shredding my tent and me to pieces.

At the top of the pass dusk starts setting in. I have seen a lake on the map that’s situated in a bowl, where I hope to pitch my tent in the lee. Not sure how far it is I race down the slippery sandy track thanking God for my hydraulic breaks, but after half an hour of irresponsible descending the lake is still nowhere to be seen. It’s getting dark and I need proper shelter against the fierce wind, so I turn back to a spot I just passed that looked reasonable. It’s a sandy field at the foot of a huge rock face. I find a place that has decent protection from the heavy side winds and at the same time is just outside of (previous) rock fall radius, where boulders multiple times the size of my tent clearly mark the ‘squash zone’. Sometimes you have to be pragmatic and keep just your fingers crossed…

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Half an hour cycling into the morning I pass the lake I was searching for last night. But it looks a bit…weird. I park the bike and take my water filter and bottles down to the waterside, where my suspicion is confirmed; this is a salt water lake, water my filter can’t take. Not great, as I only have about one bottle left after cycling all day yesterday, cooking diner and making breakfast.

Looking at my maps there are no streams coming up anytime soon, and the closest lake from here appears to be salt as well. With the power of the sun in this high altitude dustbowl sucking the sweat right out of you, I’m in a bit of a pickle… I can either play it safe and cycle back uphill for half a day where I know I can find fresh water, or take a gamble and try to get to the M41 main road as quickly as I can, where I might be able to stop a truck and ask for water. It shouldn’t be too far to the junction anymore, but the track is the smoothest loose sand making cycling more like pedalo.

Having wasted so many days already being sick I decide not to waste any more by going back, and choose the latter. Angry at my own rookie lack of anticipation I kick it up a notch and ration my food intake to save my body the fluids needed for digestion. Midday is approaching so the heat is getting pretty intense and inescapable in the shadeless landscape. I’m now almost out of water and not making as much progress as I should. This could prove a costly mistake…

Suddenly I spot a growing cloud of dust appearing in the distance. I barricade the track with my bike and signal the vehicle to stop. It turns out to be a jeep with a Polish couple and a local driver who graciously share one of their water bottles with me. Saved. Now that I can eat again as well I have the extra power I need to make it to the M41 junction fast.

Out of nothing, like a mirage, I look out over the most perfect road snaking through the Moon-like landscape. Tarmac! It’s another 30k to the closest village, but back on the heavenly surface I’m flying, and before I know it I make it back to civilization.

Alichur is literally the dustiest town I’ve ever seen, but with two or three small kiosks and homestays it almost has a metropolitan feel to it. After a welcome warm bucket shower my host tells me he used to be a hunting guide. He would take trophy hunters from all over the world into the mountains to shoot massive Marco Polo sheep at $25,000 a pop; an astronomical amount in this place. With the rapid decline of the species and subsequent protection laws he now has this guest house and makes a name for himself by baking some of the best naan in the Pamirs. While I enjoy one fresh from the clay oven I can’t help a smile realizing I made it out of that dark, miserable place in the Wakhan and across the wilderness alive and well. Proud and relieved!

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The paved road is great compared to the undefinable mess I’ve ridden over the past week. It’s around 106k to Murghab, the second and last sizable town along the 1500km route, but from now on I will have a new enemy; fierce headwinds are the new normal, all the way to my destination in Kyrgyzstan.

My map shows a 4134m (13,563ft) mountain pass halfway, but other than the landscape transforming from grassy plains to rocky hills the climb is hardly memorable, as is the (lack of a) plaque or pile of rocks at the top. Thankfully the descent is pretty decent and can finally reach some 65km/h, which seems to be about the maximum velocity for an object with the windbreaking abilities of my fully loaded bike, dodging the many potholes.

With so little traffic I enjoy my naan-with-honey-lunch at the road side in a gorgeous valley surrounded by red rock peaks. The route continues through beautiful canyons making me feel as if cycling through the Mars rover’s photo roll, when halfway the afternoon I finally catch my first glimpse of Murghab, situated at the far end of a wide, green valley with a river snaking through the grasslands. It looks so close that at first I can’t believe this is it already; it should be at least another 25k’s or so. But the visual distance proves deceptive, and the winds in the valley converge into a wind tunnel that I’m taking head on. Beaten numb by the gale I make it to the edge of town and start the search for a place to stay.

After a good plate of rice at my hostel I take a warm bucket shower and call it a night, sharing a room with two older Spanish motor cyclists. Brilliant chaps. I know I didn’t exactly pack ultralight, but these guys haven’t even brought half the stuff I carry. “More luggage makes the bike ride uncomfortably on these roads” they explain. Tell me about it…

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From Murghab onward I won’t encounter much more civilization until I make it into Kyrgyzstan, so it’s time to pay a visit to the local market. The maze of rusty sea containers converted to kiosks is an abundant source of bicycle touring essentials; instant noodles, cookies, candy bars and I’m ready to kick some ass again! Not a moment too soon, as Murghab is the highest town of the entire former Sovjet union at 3650m (11,975ft), but still I’ll have to cycle up over a kilometre to cross the daunting Ak Baital pass…

The road crosses a high altitude plain, where the weather is extremely unpredictable. Sunny weather constantly interchanges with blizzards coming down in thick white fog, with as only constant the ferocious headwind. For the first time this trip I’m wearing pants, long sleeves and gloves on the bike. Thankfully I’ve caught up with my Swedish friends, the Kineticnomads again, so we can take turns drafting. After lunch they stop to collect drinking water from a stream and I continue solo. Wanting to cover at least 60k’s today I’ve got my work cut out for me in this gale. But just before the sun sinks into the mountains’ embrace I hit the mark and find a good spot to make camp. It’s a large pit at 4300m (14,108ft) altitude that offers some protection from the howling winds. Dead beat as I am, I have some noodles and tuck in, drifting off immediately to the sound of snowflakes hitting the fly.

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Today’s a big day; the literal and figurative pinnacle of the trip! It’s been coming down a good part of the night and I wake up to a blanket of snow all around. At 4300m the mornings are freezing cold, so I take it easy. Toasty in my down jacket I wait for the sun to come over the mountains, warming me up and dry the tent a bit before embarking on my quest to conquer the roof of the world, Ak Baital pass.

It’s almost 11 before I drag my loaded bike out of the pit back to the road. Thanks to some extra work yesterday, it’s only a few more k’s to the foot of the climb, and the ride is remarkably easy right up to the final stretch, where the pavement ends just as it gets steep. It starts snowing again and I ride up the muddy gravel track in a blizzard, with my retina taking a heavy beating from a fierce snowflake/side wind combo.

I’ve been cycling above 3500m for the last week, so I’d say I’m pretty well acclimatized. But even then, hitting a steep section at this altitude drowns my legs in lactic acid with a galley drummer beating the inside of my skull at ram speed.

Looking at my altimeter I’m expecting some more hairpins beyond an upcoming bend in the road, but a straight up steep section quickly helps me gain the altitude I was looking for and gives me a view on the road flattening out, cutting through the slopes on both sides. Only a few more yards and I’m there: 4655m (15,272ft) above sea level. That’s about the height of Mont Blanc…on a bloody bicycle! For months I’ve been dreaming about this moment and finally on top I make an emotional roar –more of a shriek really- into the thin air. I made it!

I quickly put on every piece of clothing I’ve brought, and like a miracle the wind dies down, it stops snowing and there’s even an attempt from the sun so spread some pale rays. This means I can take my time for some pictures and call my wife, at work back home, with the emergency satellite phone I brought. Again I wish she was here to experience this moment together… But on the other hand I haven’t had to put up with the inevitable whining during the climb, other than my own. Thin silver lining?

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As good as most of the road was on the side I came up, so incredibly bad is the descent. Deep washboard from side to side and big potholes make for a rocky ride. With constantly engaged brakes riding down goes almost as slow as cycling up; the road is relentless. Out of nothing short patches of asphalt will appear, disappearing as suddenly as they came, driving me to desperation if it wasn’t for the extraterrestrial views.

In the afternoon the headwind picks up again, and the closer I get to the outlandishly azure lake of Karakul, the more powerful it becomes. It’s like cycling up a mountain for hours on end whilst being sandblasted. Very efficient, if you were due for a good cardio workout and facial scrub.

Starting in Murgab I’ve been accompanied by a Chinese border fence to my right. Not too far behind it is the Sarykol mountain range that I’m checking out for a suitable summit to climb. Officially the mountains here are off limits, but there is no military surveillance from what I can tell, and plenty of breaches in the railing to approach the base. And thanks to the high snow line this time of year most peaks around 5000m look like they can be done without crampons and ice axes, which I didn’t bring.

But as the afternoon progresses the sky turns darker and the wind takes on seemingly hurricane-like strength. So instead of heading out into the mountains directly, I decide to stay the night in Karakul town on the lake’s shore, and see how the weather progresses. That proves to be the right decision, as it snows heavily throughout the night covering all slopes around in a thick layer of fresh, slippery powder. Not having the right equipment with me for these conditions, I see any summit aspirations go out the window for now. Maybe I’ll get another chance down the road…

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One of the great things about travelling solo is a personal openness that I experience, to changing environments and people. To look for the unexpected and engage in it; something often lost when travelling with a partner, removing that necessity to have the tide bring you places.

Being on the road by oneself for an extended period of time, is where this fundamental human desire to connect in some way, flourishes. Among its fruit are the many great encounters I’ve had with people along the way. One of them is during diner in my hostel at Lake Karakul. Whilst outside a snowstorm is raging, the dining room is toasty and the food abundant. Here I meet Roman and Sandra, an Austrian couple living in Thailand. Roman is an avid analogue black&white photographer, and has brought an old medium format Hasselblad with him. Fascinated by this timeless piece of kit we get talking and he is kind enough to spend some of the frames he has left for this trip on me, the next morning.

Dawn is the incarnation of ‘calm after the storm’, with beautiful skies and the mountains draped in a pristine mantle of white. It must be a combination of the high altitude and low humidity that has an amazing effect on the light up here, giving extraordinary intensity to the snowy peaks and clouds. Great day for a shoot!

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After the little photo shoot with Roman I go on my way again, following the shoreline of mighty lake Karakul. It’s one of those mornings where you can’t believe how lucky you are to be alive and cycling the open road… Although it’s already late and I feel a bit stressed to make up for the lost time, the extraordinary light and landscape has me stopping constantly to snap more pictures.

A short but vicious climb leads me out of the Karakul bowl and by the time I reach the top it’s snowing again and an icy wind persuades me to put on all the layers I have. At least the road continues to be good, so I’m making decent progress in reaching the Kyrgyz border today.

Just before my late lunch around three in the afternoon I run into a young German guy cycling back home from China. I continue to be amazed by the amount of people simultaneously on the road like this, something that had never dawned on me before going on this trip and meeting some of them.

To protect my naan with honey meal from the drift sand saturated wind, I eat in a culvert under the road. Maybe it’s because of my hasty, high pace but I’m feeling quite weak and tired. I would like to call it a day late afternoon when I approach the final climb to the border, but the dark, lifeless landscape has an unusually eerie feel to it. So I decide to keep pushing for the crossing and camp in the no man’s land in between the two countries.

The customs station is what you’d expect from a Central Asian border post: a bunch of rusty sea containers with corrugated sheet porches for offices, and stern looking chaps with Kalashnikovs documenting everything by hand in large paper books. Luckily they’re not in the mood for going through another cyclist’s (extremely) smelly socks, so I’m let through without having to unpack all my panniers. From there it isn’t far to the top of 4280m (14,042ft) Kyzyl Art pass from which I race down to find a camping spot before the pitch black rainclouds will burst. When I spot my Swedish friends’ tent at the side of the road, I decide to join their mini camping. But just as I get off the bike, the heavens open, and I make camp in the pouring rain. Everything gets soaked and covered in red mud while I’m freezing and absolutely knackered. Cooking diner under the rainfly I think this must’ve been my worst day on the road so far.

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After a hell of a night in no man’s land between Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan I wake up to the rain streaming down the fly unabated. Inside the tent everything’s damp with wet clothing draped from the sealing in a futile attempt to dry. You know it’s gonna be a great day when you get to put on yesterday’s cold, moist outfit again. After a breakfast shake I pack up and set off into the thick mist and drizzle to the Kyrgyz border, accompanied by the Kinetic Nomads. The muddy track is beyond terrible, as neither country feels responsible to maintain this stateless 15km stretch. But when the fog clears a bit, I find myself cycling through a postcard straight from Iceland.

The Kyrgyz border crossing also marks the boundary between artisanal bookkeeping and the digital age, with a guard behind an actual computer scanning my passport. Outside the small customs booth the rain is coming down in monsoon strength again, so we ask permission to wait it out inside. But while standing there I’m literally swept of my feet by a wave of heavy nausea. I just sort of collapse in a corner of the booth, feeling like I’m about to pass out any second. Maybe half an hour later I’m able to get back on my feet, but I know I need to get somewhere warm and dry, quickly. There is no other option than to get biking again.

The closest village, Sary Tash, is around 35k’s away. As I’ve heard of a guesthouse there, I decide to go for it in one big push, putting all my focus to the road. Survival mode really. The last 15 k’s I’m able to see the village in the distance -almost touch it- at the end of the straight asphalt line cutting through the Kyrgyz steppe. But the free roaming headwind keeps it dangling in front of me for over an hour. With my last strength I make it to the homestay, drop my bike against the wall and hobble through the front door to crash on a bunch of pillows.

Muras guesthouse is arguably the best place to fall sick in Central Asia. The sister-run homestay is the newest, cleanest place I’ve seen along the entire Pamir Highway, with as crown jewels a hot shower and indoor toilet. An oasis. The medicine I bought in the Wakhan Valley now comes in great to keep in essential nutrients to recover, but still I‘m felled for three days with zero energy and the worst ‘stomach problems’ you have never encountered.

In no way am I physically ready to get back on the bike again after my three day break, but I must hit the road to make my flight home. Some other guests kindly offer me a ride for the remaining stretch, but I don’t think I would ever forgive myself for copping out this close to the finish line. I want to end this adventure the way I feel it should: by myself, on a bike, reaching my limits.

Only 185 kilometres and two more mountain passes stand between me and holding my wife. It’s basically a real life version of the final level in Donkey Kong…

The first pass right outside town is a punch in the gut, forcing a heavily recovering body back into beastmode. But once you get back into that cadence of suffering, I’m surprised how quickly it adjusts. At the end of the second day I make it to the foot of the last big pass. A rainstorm is cooking and heavy gusts of wind in combination with the gradient make cycling nearly impossible at times. But the gnarly conditions only fuel my desperation and anger driving me up the mountain, be it tantalizingly slowly. Halfway up night has fallen, and I realize I can’t make it all the way today. So I squat a half open shed by the side of the road to set up my tent inside.

It must be around two or three at night when an old Russian truck pulls over right outside my bivouac and lets its ear deafening engine run no-load to cool down from the strenuous climb. Wide awake, I hear the intoxicated driver stumbling and spluttering around the property. Thankfully he doesn’t spot my tent in the shed, where I’m sitting up straight with my headlight and pocket knife handy…

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With renewed strength I make it to the top of the last pass in the morning. From here on the road goes mostly downhill to Osh with temperatures rising; exactly what I need right now. Although Kyrgyzstan is beautiful my full focus is on reaching Osh, so I hardly stop for pictures, chats and children’s high fives anymore. Closed off with my earbuds in I kick away the miles to my destination.

On my final day of cycling it’s only 70 more k’s, the road is great and I’m feeling better. With the stress of time pressure slowly lifting I can’t help but celebrate early by singing along to some ancient Switchfoot albums at the top of my lungs, to great amusement of some locals.

It’s early afternoon when I finally roll into town under Osh’s giant victory arch, which seems fitting, especially after the last three days. What a relief to have made it, on my own and in time for my flight! Turning onto my hostel’s premises I’m reunited with Kineticnomads Robin and Ida as well as my old pal Andy; after making it out of the Wakhan on his own his bike broke down, and without repair options he found himself hitchhiking all the way to Osh. It’s great to see them all again, and to celebrate we go out for the first western food in weeks: beer and burgers.

As demanded by my airline I go looking for a carton box to transport my bike in, together with Andy. The hostel’s owner assures me they are easy to find, but after asking every single bicycle shop in Central Asia’s largest bazaar we still stand empty handed. So I decide to build one myself from used refrigerator packaging, and with some help of a fellow cyclist I construct a box built like a Russian tank. To prove it I proudly climb on top, as Ida snaps a pic with her phone. Receiving the shot from her, back home, I’m harshly confronted with the toll the Pamirs have taken on my emaciated body. Not bringing a mirror has its clear advantages…

Although skin and bones might make for cool stories, it’s good to put things into some perspective: I’m pretty convinced that anyone in decent shape with a healthy dose of determination and taste for raw adventure can cycle the Pamir Highway -as have hundreds of cyclists before me. And everyone will face challenges of their own along the way. I’ve been somewhat unlucky by getting properly sick twice. Being bedridden for days, unable to eat or communicate, and the complete absence of a safety net has brought me to the edge of what I can endure. And although that’s exactly what I came for in a way, the process of being stretched beyond one’s comfort zone is hardly ever pleasant. But to place yourself in a position where you are exposed to the ‘elements’ feels incredibly liberating and can redefine your playing field. Ending on the pretentious note you knew was coming, I think this adversity has given the trip a deeper dimension, for which I’m weirdly grateful.

This has truly been an unforgettable experience; an adventure worthy of bringing a decade to a close. And it makes me all the more curious to see what the next one holds.

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