A Dangerous Missteppe

The next day, I did probably the dumbest thing of this whole dumb thing. I was to meet up with the megacephalic Dutchman, whom I will only describe in further detail when salient, a staggering and circuitous 580km away. Or, I reasoned, I could just take one of the many tan streaks on the map that were definitely dirt roads and bang it out as the bird flies. It would be no more than 100km, equal parts pavement and definitely dirt road, I reasoned.

It is difficult to convey the danger of a situation which might have gone very badly, but didn't; whose risk is insidious, and outcomes binary. Particularly when it is entirely one's own doing. But let's give it a shot:

I set off down one of the nondescript paths and soon lost my way. These were not roads - they were ruts, full of superfine moondust. This was the steppe: desolation incarnate; an endless expanse of featureless, pallid, slippery powder crisscrossed by a million tire tracks. From above it must look like the surface of a well-used cutting board. A spiteful landscape if ever I saw one.

No matter, I could slog out 50kms in a couple hours. I got up onto virgin soil, which is more rideable owing to the scrub which provides a modicum of stability, though it increases the risk of a puncture. But I soon discovered the hidden danger: that you may suddenly nosedive right into another track.

And so I alternated between rut and scrub, changing lanes after each close call and swearing never to ride one or the other again. The raw steppe promised greater speed at the risk of calamity, while the loathsome rut demanded more physical exertion and patience. I took half a dozen falls, but always emerged unscathed. An injury, a breakdown, a puncture - it sounds dramatic because I put myself in this situation, but any of these probable events could be potentially fatal, for I had long ago depleted my water, the sun was brutal and unmitigated, and there was certainly no cell signal. I had grossly miscalculated the distance and difficulty, and after four hours found myself only halfway. 75km of privation in every direction, and not a soul in sight. I passed the rotting carcass of a camel.

But I was getting the hang of it, and picking up speed. Learning not to fight the rut, but let it guide the wheel. I slogged onward, hour after featureless hour under the relentless sun, using my phone merely as a compass. But the further I went, the more distant the map showed my objective. Some kind of cruel parallax, like jogging on a treadmill moving faster than you can run. I really can't explain it, other than incompetence and heat stroke… which actually seem like pretty solid explanations. Long after I thought I should have arrived, I saw it: the dreaded fuel light. Having so severely misjudged the distance and condition of the "road," I had consumed far more fuel than anticipated. There was nothing to do but ride as far as I could. Stress.

Eventually, somehow, I made it. A Hanukkah miracle. I must have been riding on fumes when I hit the road and pounded out another 8km to a small restaurant, the only building for miles. I knocked on the door, looking like hell, begging in equal measure for food, water, and fuel. The latter proved an impossible request. A boy could spare me one liter from his bike, but I would need at least five to reach Beyneu. A few trucks came and went, all diesel. It is hard to overstate the scale of this country. On the bright side, my Uzbekistan visa had been granted just in time.

The big headed Dutchman's name was Jan. He was also riding hard that day, gunning for Beyneu all the way from Astrakhan on a road that sounded like its own version of hell. While I had worked on shipping Strom, he had flown home to obtain a Russian visa, and the timing worked out such that we would enter Uzbekistan together, then see how we got on.

I sent him an SOS, asking him to slap an additional 200km on an already grueling day. While I awaited his reply, who else waltzed into the restaurant but Alexis, followed by a funny trio of the nicest drunks you've ever seen. Jan agreed to come to my aid, so I lounged with the gang while waiting for him. As libations flowed, one of the men offered to give me five liters of gas from his car. I was tremendously grateful, but as Jan was already on his way, and I doubted the quality of this gas, I politely declined. He and the others absolutely would not have it, and took me outside to sloppily fill my tank. But Strom was thirsty, and happily accepted Jan's contribution as well. I decided not to tell him that I had received enough gas to make it to Beyneu by myself. He insisted that I call him my Lord and savior, and I was happy to oblige. After extracting ourselves from the hot mess, we left Alexis to sleep at the restaurant and headed to our accommodation in Beyneu.

A month later, I recounted this story to another biker in Tajikistan. He had taken the exact same shortcut. What an idiot.