The Itch

Uzbek drivers were apparently thrilled to see us, offering honks every few minutes. I loved it, but having removed my horn to make space for contraband, I relied on Jan to reciprocate. We surmised that they were simply excited to see something different, for owing to the existence of a peculiar state run Chevy factory and extreme import duties, nearly all cars in Uzbekistan are identical white Chevy sedans.

In the middle of the scorched, desiccated plain, we passed @oneaveragespoke. He was an English biologist searching the lost rivers of Eurasia for sturgeon - specifically the Syr Darya, which has not been seen since the 1960s. We thought ourselves magnanimous for bequeathing him water, but on the back of his bike was a bevy of empty bottles which passing drivers had handed him.

Matt described an itch, one which had catalyzed his journey and loyally compelled him ever onwards through sleet, snow, heat, and gloom of night. He slipped in a rather poignant offhand comment that, like him, we must also be running from something. For why else would an American, Dutchman, and Brit find themselves all the way out here? But a few weeks earlier, Matt had realized that his itch was gone. Satisfied, he would head for Tashkent then return home. What exactly was my itch, I wondered, and had it already been scratched? Could it ever be?

Matt was about an hour from finishing the Deathly Hallows on audiobook, so as he pedaled away I shouted "Dumbledore dies!" and heard him scream "Nooooooooo!" as he rode out of earshot. We got back on the bikes, and as we sped by, I added "Snape did it!"

In Kanigorot we met a man from Tashkent dressed in immaculate white cotton, standing proudly beside some homebrewed frankenbike. In this mobile cot he was undertaking the Hajj. There was no Instagram handle on his trike, no whiff of self-importance, and no brakes. This behemoth, which also lacked handlebars, was a fixie. Unbelievable. I am sometimes dismissed when I tell people that my journey is not particularly special, but I mean it. It has been done a million times before in far more impressive, untold ways. We simply don't realize, or care, how vast the world really is.