Lost Thai(m)

The sublime tarmac continued, this time through much more engrossing environs. I raced alongside the Panj river, engulfed in a deep, rocky crevasse. Tajikistan on my left, Afghanistan to my right. A few checkpoints, a paucity of traffic, and the occasional squad of callow, baby faced soldiers patrolling the road half heartedly.

Immediately to my left, the sheer rock wall blocked my view, so I focused on the other side. There was naught but a dirt track chiseled into the opposing escarpment - an impressive feat of engineering all the same. Occasionally I would come alongside another rider on the Afghan side, putting along in the same direction, perhaps just two hundred feet away. Like mirror images, reflections across the river, I thought. By the accident of birth, what different lives we must lead, but I resisted the temptation to presume that mine was better. I waved a few times but they never hailed back. I later discovered that they were Taliban.

Na met me in Kalaikum, where the road turns to shit. It is, I’m confident, the most unpleasant 150 miles I have ever ridden. I filled up with my first bucket-o-gas and we headed out - but after about an hour he disappeared. I circled back to find him studying a very flat tire. After MUCH consternation we changed the tube, but as we reinflated it, I saw it bulging through an enormous gash in the tire. Ridden like this, it would simply pop again. We cut a section out of the old tube and zip tied it over the gash. The next 100 miles took two days as we exhausted the zip ties, lashed it with rope, and bound it with wire. Six designs in all, and none held for more than 10 miles. The loss of those two days would end up having immense consequences on the rest of my trip.