Beat

I had defeated the Bartang Valley, but it was a Pyrrhic victory. For while there was at least a bit of rotten gas in Strom's tank, there was nothing left in mine. I was utterly spent, and frankly done with this trip. I would have continued riding for another year if given the chance, but with the end of this odyssey just around the corner, I had nothing left to look forward to, no grand homecoming or sense of accomplishment to spur me onward. There is nothing particularly special about Bishkek - it is not a terminus of the silk road, the conclusion of some historic migration, nor the end of a continent where the land falls into the ocean. To me at least, it does not represent the start or finish of anything in particular. It was simply the practical endpoint.

That the valley spat me out on the reprehensible road from Khorog to Kalaikum was salt in the wound. I rode numbly, mustering what effort I could to avoid the backbreaking potholes. As night fell, lights appeared across the river. In the dark, the little huts on the Afghan mountainside became nothing more than a handful of floating white orbs - perhaps one or two in each house; 30-40 for a whole town. They looked magical, like an elven Cinque Terre.

I reached Kalaikum and walked into the same guesthouse at which I had stayed 10 days earlier. I skirted around five bicycles clogging the entryway. That was always a welcome sight, but I wasn’t sure I had the energy to talk to anyone. But whom should I find but Stu, Elliot, Sully, Anne-Louise, and Etienne. It was nice to see their faces, but I’m not sure they would say the same, for I was haggard and bore warning about the challenge ahead of them.

Meanwhile, Strom was becoming unsafe to ride: forks leaking worse than Rudy Giuliani’s right ear (same color though), losing power intermittently or dying all together, rear brake sticking, chain flapping and chain guard destroyed, skid plate hanging on for dear life, and god knows what other vital bolts had come loose.