I quit a long-time working relationship with a photo agency where I was photographing hotels. It needed to happen years ago, and most people would be frightened to walk out on paying gigs. Perhaps more on that another time, but I now have TIME. That one commodity we can’t create or make more of, and seems to slip by faster and faster.
Rather than filling up a cycling-specific blog with photos and stories, I’m working on my social media portfolio, which includes stories and behind-the-scene photos on my Patreon site. There will be many free content and subscription-based posts on occasion.
Just 24 hours after landing in Bishkek, Nurjamal and two video and production crew members would pick me and my bike up from the guesthouse. Brooks England hoped to get video footage of me riding my bike for a little promo piece. I had planned to be in Kyrgyzstan a month before the race to acclimate and finish the last of the training, so it seemed that it would also work best for the little film.
We would drive for a couple of hours directly south of Bishkek, headed towards Ala-Archa Nature Park. Unfortunately, arriving at the park gate a little after sunrise, it was closed for the next couple of days, to our disappointment and confusion. Reassessing our options, we drove back towards Bishkek. Stopping around Tash-Dobo, the crew set up their camera so there would be a view of Ala-Archa in the background and the soft morning light.
Although I was jet-lagged and sleep deprived because of the excitement and heat (close to 100F during the day), I was full of energy FINALLY to pedal my bike around the mountains of Kyrgyzstan. It had been over ten years since my initial visit on my old steel touring bike, and now I had Baby Yak, which had been built for the mountains.
photo: Nurjamal
After riding back and forth on the pavement, we headed towards the Chunkurchak Valley. Finally, leaving the tarmac and finding gravel.
It’s almost like I lept out of the vehicle with my bike and started to ride up the switchbacks. We were fortunate to catch a shepherd and his horses. I rode up the pass to meet him while our camera guy followed up through the field and two others in the vehicle. It would take a lot to get me off my bike after finally getting here.
I had dreamed of this day for what seemed like forever. I was finally able to return to Central Asia with a bicycle. I was here to race in the Silk Road Mountain Race, something I had wanted to do for four years. Something I had worked very hard for, almost every day, for the last year. There is no way to describe how it felt, how each pedal stroke ignited a spark to grow the flame inside. It didn’t matter what happened from then on out because…
…I won!
All that work had gotten me to exactly where I had dreamt of. Magic exists. And I got to share it with others. Nurjamal and Tilek, our videographer, both took a little spin on Baby Yak. I’m still trying to convince them to race the Silk Road someday.
This was the point where we stopped and turned around. I told the crew I would ride down, and they would film out of the back of the vehicle. It was an excellent little ride to test my bike, and my tool canister flew off from the water, cage on the bottom/underside of the down tube. Twice. That would have been fun if I had found that out during the race, so I would strap down the canister for future riding.
I’m still not sure if I enjoy climbing or descending more. I think each is needed to appreciate the other. These were the first miles in Kyrgyzstan since 2012, and I felt terrific and grateful to be there. An overwhelming joy that perhaps can only be understood by those inflicted with wanderlust, infinite curiosity, and a genuine love of two-wheeled travel. I had been locked out of Asia for two and a half years. I was closer to being “home” than I could have imagined. I felt like who I was before Covid threw me off course. I found a piece of me that roams the mountains, awaiting my return.
The last two and a half years have been challenging for me. When I opened up to some people, they shamed me for my feelings because some people had died because of Covid. As if I had no right to feel so sad and confused about my loss and confusion. For years, I was waiting for the dream to end. I would wake up from a nap on the plateau, surrounded by my Tibetan friends and family. They would laugh at my little snooze, and we would resume with laughter, tea, and tsampa. We would dance. We would walk through the mountains. Sit around the hearth of the home and braid our hair. I would be walking towards the sunset of the infinite plateau horizon. It was all a dream.
I don’t expect others to understand my feelings, but I am thankful for those that can commiserate. Many of my fellow ex-pats had left China around the same time or were still enduring the insanity. Other friends that were travelers could understand, and many expressed their sympathies. They knew how much I loved my Tibetan and Uyghur lands and what an emptiness I carried. I remind myself that I can understand the diasporas a little more because of this experience and the inability to return. I will be a better photographer and, more importantly, a better human when I can return.
Getting here. Now. To Kyrgyzstan was one of the first things I have done for myself in a very long time. I spent over a decade working and saving every cent to pursue projects with Tibetans and Uyghurs. There was guilt if I wasn’t on the path to helping others. But I forgot to care about myself along that route. And so, for the last year, I put everything I had into getting to Kyrgyzstan. To arrive at that start line and try to finish one of the most difficult bike races in the world. All I wanted was to get here. And I did.
And I won.
Photo: Nurjamal
The sun is rising in the sky, and it’s getting hot. So we decided to return to Bishkek to rest and return to the mountains later in the day.
The heat is unbearable during the daytime hours. I can barely get any sleep as my hostel dorm room has no curtains, and the AC isn’t turned on. I believe this is for the best, as I think it will help me acclimate to the heat, but I think the lack of sleep eventually caught up to me.
Around 4 pm, we loaded back up and drove Southwest of Bishkek towards Kegety Pass. I remembered part of the route out of the city from the first Silk Road Mountain Race in 2018. Fond memories and somewhat surreal. We would turn off before Kegety and head towards the same mountain range but up Alamedin Gorge.
Glaciers in the background peaking over 15,000 feet, fresh water, and that alpine landscape. I seem to be getting closer and closer to the heavens.
I was able to ride a bit of double and single track. The bike is so light and nimble without gear, and wishing I could ride every day with a nearly bare naked baby yak. I could imagine I was back in Colorado or Washington or returning to when I was riding my fully loaded touring bike around Tibet. Sometimes I think about how heavy that bike was with all the gear and imagine what it would be like to return with such a lighter setup.
Up the Alamedin Gorge, you’ll find fresh flowing water, flowers, waterfalls, and hot springs. Small villages are lower, but it gets much more remote after the last village at the bridge.
While we were up there, where the road ended and turned to single track, Nurjamal found her “dream house.” And to be honest, it was mine too. However, the house seemed out of place for Kyrgyzstan as it seemed to be entirely new construction, well cared for, and even a guard sitting on the porch.
Again, I couldn’t resist riding down the gorge on the bike and would take the lead from the vehicle considerably. Washboard and washed-out roads are much less demanding on bikes. I took a little detour up a hill with my extra time and then found an apricot tree to enjoy the first fresh fruit of the trip.
The van would arrive, and I reluctantly loaded back as I wanted to ride forever. Finally, I felt back to myself. Before returning to Bishkek, we would catch the sunset and record a few moments of my riding on the road. A small car came around the corner and swerved to avoid me as I rode back to the vehicle after a short descent. I would ride this road again when I left Bishkek for Osh in a few days.
On the third day, July 14th, we would meet later. Again, I had difficulties sleeping in the hostel. A couple of guests didn’t want to turn the lights off, and one stayed up all night on her computer. This coupled with the heat, I couldn’t sleep and knew I was asking for future problems by going into a sleep deficit. So I decided to leave in two days to head into the mountains, where the air is cooler, and I can ride while catching up on sleep in the evenings.
Jet lagged and sleep deprived, I took a walk early in the morning to get the last of the supplies and food to head me out on the road towards Osh. I was estimating a week to ride but knew I would have some villages where I could refill supplies. But, I was looking forward to getting away from towns and more into the remote mountains. Also, loading up on extra gear would allow me to train more with weight for the race.
The quiet morning through the parks and a city just coming to life felt so welcoming and comforting. It reminded me of all the walks through China. When I lived in Shanghai, I would walk everywhere during all hours of the day—sometimes starting at 4 am or 4 pm. I would walk and have all my senses wake up while clearing my mind. Even though I grew up in a small town and love getting lost in the mountains or roaming the plateaus, it’s the big cities where I feel the most anonymous and unnoticed. No one cares about you or what you’re doing. You walk, questioning your existence. Does no one notice me? Am I even here?
The street sweepers pull at my heartstrings. It was one of the first things that captivated me about Asia. Especially during my first visit to China in 2007. And then, during my 2010-12012 bike tour, I would spend countless hours with street sweepers on the side of highways or in the middle of villages. Then when I would continue doing long-distance walking and hitchhiking, they were still the ones that provided me proof—that proof of existence.
The roses of Central Asia. You can’t miss them. You’ll find them in the parks and along the tree-lined roads. You’ll find them in the homes. That morning the smell seemed to float among the cool breeze trailed by the heat that would soon engulf the city.
Then there are the groceries. I can’t express the feelings I have when entering a supermarket in Asia after nearly three years. The colors. The smell. There is something so very different than those in the US. There are some different methods, too, but I understand it all.
It feels like I’m home. I’m finally home. Close enough, at least.
I don’t know how to describe it. It just feels right. It feels as if Bishkek hasn’t changed since I first visited in 2012. It feels comforting to be around women covering their hair in scarves and men wearing doppas. I would do nearly anything to stay forever. To stop time. To pause the progression.
That is one of the biggest inner turmoils I have been battling since leaving Asia. The passing of time and looking at the last decade and seeing what I did “wrong” or should have done instead. Where did that time go? I was bouncing around Asia for nearly ten years, having the time of my life. Then it ended. I took things for granted. Too often, I said, “next time.” I learned a harsh lesson: sometimes, there really is no “next time.” I don’t know when I will be able to spend time with my friends in Tibet. Or with my Uyghur friends, for more than a couple of reasons. The last three years have been memories filled with longing and regrets, and I don’t ever want that happen to again. I want to make the clock stop ticking and exist in these moments for all eternity.
At the time of this writing, I can at least say I don’t have any regrets from my time in Kyrgyzstan last summer, at least from what I had control over. Perhaps I would have taken more photos, but I did my best to balance a race, riding, and time. Time. The most precious thing we have.
I would go back to the guesthouse to try and rest before going out with the crew in the afternoon. Again, the heat has become unbearable, and I end up sitting outside and resting on the tapchan. The tapchan is one of the things I love the most about Central Asian countries. When I bike toured through the “Stans”, I spent so many nights sleeping on them at roadside cafes or in the backyards of a family’s home. Countless conversations, pantomiming with tea, naan, fruit compote. Especially apricot.
While waiting, I spent some time prepping my things for the road. My Tibetan professor had given me a Tibetan prayer to recite at the mountain tops for world peace. I was also given some time to catch up with my favorite traveler of Central Asia. Alick Warburton. A kiwi that can speak Russian has traversed over some of the most regions and routes of the region. He always has an answer to my questions of the region. An enCYCLEpedia on two wheels. I was so fortunate to meet him in a guesthouse in Dushanbe during the summer of 2012. And we haven’t seen each other in ten years, but perhaps our paths will cross again. And, of course in only the most remote regions of Asia
While driving up to the mountains, I teach Nurjamal the art of “your momma” jokes, dancing in the van, and flower picking. It’s been an absolute joy to share time with Nurjamal again. She is one of a kind, and her laughter and big heart are genuine.
We headed up the mountains to a yurt camp near Kegeti Pass again. We are looking for some nomad camps to film in, but it is challenging to remain this close to the city. There is a tourist yurt camp, and after we could get a few minutes of filming, a not-so-kind boss man chased us out.
Happier than I can imagine.
Me and Baby Yak
Mountains and Yurts.
It’s been a few years since I found myself in a yurt. Even with the lapse of time, I am still very aware of the etiquette and symbolism of yurts and nomadic life. I have to be honest; I have to turn away too often when I see foreigners in yurts for the first time, and no one has told them some of the etiquette or how to eat from shared plates.
The center of a yurt is called a tündük. It is also the emblem of the Turkic peoples and symbolizes their unity and connection. This symbol is found on the Kyrgyzstan flag. It is actually a depiction of the first thing one sees when waking up in a yurt, namely the construction of the pinnacle of every Kyrgyz yurt with three crisscrossing laths across the circular opening at the top of the yurt.
Tilek got another chance to ride Baby Yak, and I have high hopes he will race someday.
After the angry Kyrgyz chased us off for hanging around his yurts, we found a very kind guesthouse owner that was beyond hospitable. He allowed us in his yurt, where we were able to spend some time with him and his wife. We had a little lunch, and then the afternoon finished with a beautiful rainbow and some donkeys I chased down to kiss.
That night, again, I did not get much sleep, and I hope you can foresee enough with the mention of it that it may catch up with me at some point.
The following day, on July 14th, I went for a back massage at a clinic for blind masseuses. It was recommended to me by a local Kyrgyz. Nurshat. Give that guy a follow. I later found out that besides being a cyclist and runner, he helps visually disabled Kyrgyz run and even competes! Learning that and then understanding why he was tied to runners made me cry; what a wonderful soul to share something like that and encourage others to break past boundaries.
After navigating through a beautiful Central Asian garden, I found the complex. I waited outside in the shade and noted all the colorful flowers, clean white homes, and bright blue skies.
The young woman that gave me the massage was shy and apologized for her poor English. I took a taxi more than 30 minutes from the city to visit her. After doing this so much in China, I understood there would be a communication issue. Especially since she couldn’t read Google translate on my phone. I had to use my old ways of communicating and use more hand-holding and writing on hands, than pantomiming. She was sweet, and Nurshat told me she had worked hard and saved enough money to buy her apartment. These are the stories that give me the strength to carry on toward my own dreams.
She did state that my back was “bad”. That is not new news to me. Everyone comments on it. I heard it nearly every time I went for a massage in China. Sometimes the diagnosis was much more frightening than others.
Now, I was ready to go! Tomorrow. Finally. After a year of preparing. After four years of dreaming of this day. After ten years of being here for the first time on my bicycle. I am here. ME. The me that’s been missing for too long. I’m here and ready to go.
From 2010 to 2012, I rode my bike around China and Central Asia as a solo cyclist. I had ridden on a Brooks saddle, and since that initial adventure, Brooks England has reached out to me regarding writing for their publications and audience. These writings were about bike riding, fear, or empowerment as a woman. It’s challenging to find a single label for how I travel or what I do, as my endeavors involve adventure, human rights, women’s issues, and photography. I like to consider myself just a very curious troublemaker. The good kind, of course.
Self-portrait on the southern shores of Namucuo, the second-highest lake in the world. September 1, 2011 Tibetan Autonomous Region
Brooks England asked me to be the photographer for the inaugural Silk Road Mountain Race in Kyrgyzstan. As Bikepacking.com stated: “The Silk Road Mountain Race is a fixed route, unsupported, single-stage cycling race through the Tian Shan mountains of Kyrgyzstan. It will follow gravel, single and double track, and old soviet roads that have long been forgotten and fallen into disrepair.” It would be a 1000-mile race with 85,000 feet of climbing.
Irkeshtam Pass Kyrgyzstan April 1, 2012. A horrible blizzard would sweep through in just a few hours after this photo.
I toured through Central Asia in 2012, as I was ending that two-year-long bicycle tour. Kyrgyzstan, I knew NOTHING about bike races let alone ultra-endurance races. Besides needing my photography skills, I had a lot of experience with the people, culture, and lands of Central Asia. Therefore, I was given the task of dealing with logistics and supporting our expedition team which would consist of three other people.
Tajikistan 2012Tajikistan 2012
When arriving at Shanghai Pudong airport to make the flight to Bishkek via Urumqi, I saw a couple of guys with bike bags. What are the chances that these guys are going to the race, I made an awkward introduction. One of the guys would end up being Jeff Liu of Factory Five and assisted in the route and race creation that year. Jeff would end up designing my titanium frame which would be a three-year-long build until I raced it last summer in Kyrgyzstan.
It had been six years since my last visit to Kyrgyzstan and felt like it had remained in a time capsule, especially compared to the rapid pace of life in China. It felt great to be back in Central Asia and in the cycling world. There was a part of me that felt like I was missing something, and that was my bike. But I had my crew. Cyril Chermin, Jay, and Nurjamal as our translator and fixer.
The four of us were given a Russian buhanka (van) to document the race while also serving as a support vehicle. “What happens stays in the van”. I could write up this story for pages but I’m here to tell you about my race experience last year. There were a few moments in 2018 that did motivate me to race one day.
There was the initial interview with Jay Petervary. I heard a hum and excitement about “JP”. I feigned that I knew, but really had no idea of the legend. As I was interviewing him, with off-the-cuff questions, I felt my mood mirror his and couldn’t quit matching his smile and enthusiasm. I understood his passion, drive, and wanderlust. “Wait, I’m kind of like this guy too. The good kind of “crazy”. You can see that film and interview here!
During the entire race, the Brooks England crew pondered over who would race in the future. From the start line, I saw that I belonged out there. As a long-distance touring cyclist, my brain is wired to find a pace and hold it. Also, my outdoor skills and years of adventuring around China as a solo woman had prepared me for nearly anything. I knew how to take care of myself in the most remote areas, acclimate to extreme temperatures and weather, and protect myself from the most unpredictable animal out there. The human.
Maybe it was because it was the first Silk Road Mountain Race, but I witnessed a lot of mistakes that could have been prevented by experience or just understanding the region. I’m not fast or strong, but my skills in remote regions and my ability to remain calm is my strong suit. Determined, resilient, tenacious, and highly competitive with myself.
Photograph: Cyril Chermin 2018
At one of the checkpoints along the shores of Issy-Kul, Jeff Liu let me ride his bike around and holy shit, that was it. That was the moment I knew that one day I was going to race. The cold against my face, the heartbeat rising to deal with the altitude and freedom. The intense feeling of freedom.
Photograph: Jennifer Doohan
The community was also a reason I wanted to race. I witnessed racers creating lifelong friendships with comradery and understanding that’s hard to find. Having lived in China, up to that point, for 10 years and all my solo travels, I longed for that. I wanted community. I wanted friends that “get it”. It seemed this exposure to ultra-racing would change my life like it has so many others. Even though I didn’t race, I still made friendships during that adventure I still have today.
At a loss, again. I felt lost, again. A similar feeling to what instigated that two-year-long bicycle tour. I had lost my reasons, or at least I couldn’t return to the regions where they were. Everything I had worked towards and planned on was taken away while the entire trajectory of my life changed. I had planned to spend my future in Tibet.
Bike rides can fix that!
Because of delivering photographs, I had “met” a lot of racers from the first Silk Road. One amazing human was Jesse Blough. After communicating via Instagram about bike stuff, I would arrive in October of 2021 to participate in my first ultra, the Big Lonely. The race took place from Bend, Oregon, and would total around 300 miles.
Photo: Erich WeidenkellerPhoto: Erich Weidenkeller
That was another step to seeing if I wanted to pursue SRMR (Silk Road Mountain Race). The community is stellar and remains in contact with Jesse, fellow racers, and even Erich the event photographer. That race in Bend opened up more connections in the area, and when I struggled with my brakes a few days before SRMR 2022, Julia with Chariot Bike Shop in Bend and Erich sent a video helping me swap out my brake pads. I mean, seriously?! Bikes bring amazing people into my life.
The Big Lonely race 2021 Photo: Erich Weidenkeller
THE HOW
Training started in November before the application even went live for SRMR 2022. I trained until June when I would have to pack up the bike and make the final decision on gear. Training included A LOT of weightlifting and strengthening. I have a long list of injuries and for the first time, my back pain ceased. That one was picked up when trying to cross a river with my bike in Tajikistan. A daily reminder not to be stupid and be careful of water crossings.
There were also two weeks in Seattle during the middle of the winter where I was getting my NOLS Wilderness First Responder. I was determined not to be a liability while also being able to help others should they need it.
In January, I took a short bike trip out to Arizona with my partner, Nick. I tackled the Hangover bike trail in Sedona for the second time and left my ego at the top. Those Arizona double black diamonds will surely knock someone’s confidence off a ledge. That trip ended with me crying and swearing I was giving up bicycles forever.
The Hangover
During June I would spend a few weeks in Utah and Colorado riding singletrack on my full-suspension mountain bike with my brother.
Mt. Elbert“Lord of the Rings Shit”- Christopher Moseman
Chris and I tried to summit Mt. Elbert, a 14’er in Leadville Colorado but we hit snow so close to the top. It would have been both of the first 14’ers with a bike. I really wanted that first to be shared with him. We went to Camp Hale, where the Tibetans were trained in the early 1950s to fight against the People’s Liberation Army. Again, more snow but it was so special to be there and go up to the Kokomo Pass.
Kokomo Pass and praying for Tibetans all over the world. Kokomo Pass
Later I would venture down to southern Utah alone, climb and descend the Spinal Tap trail, and felt like my bike handling skills, and speed had drastically improved. Just a few months before I was going to sell all my bikes and just turn away. But mountain biking becomes more fun the more you shred and less hammer.
Spinal Tap
While out west, I was able to summit my first North American 14’er with my bike and plenty of pushing my bike through snow and up rocks. I also got to finally meet Lauren Brownlee for dinner. Although we both raced in the Big Lonely, we didn’t get to meet in person until last summer.
Mt. ShermanMt. ShermanMt. Sherman
Leading up to then, I had done some shorter gravel rides, including a few days on the Rock Star gravel route in Virginia and sections of Sheltowee single-track trails with my partner. The Sheltowee is one of the gorgeous areas in the region, but the trails don’t see a lot of traffic. So, there were plenty of moments of hike a bike or wanting to sit down and sob out of frustration.
Sheltowee Trace Cranberry area of West VirginiaSheltowee area
Brooks England had contacted me regarding gear sponsorship and as their SRMR ambassador. They had enjoyed my endeavors over the last decade and how I pursued a fulfilling life of adventure as a solo woman in Asia while balancing life and the mission of helping. They hadn’t had a female ambassador during one of their races and this would be the year. Because this would be my third time in the country, most people figured I would at least finish.
Rockstar Gravel Route
It felt like it was an excellent opportunity to give a different “voice” to the world of cycling and said, “yes”. For someone who has a career and mission not connected to bikes while being transparent with struggles that many of us can relate to, it felt like a good opportunity. “Bicycles saved my life” but also was the tool for me to find a more meaningful life with immense purpose. To find a route of servitude to others.
I’ve been around long enough to know that sponsorship will not make me rich and famous. I saw it as a potential platform to talk about important things to me and should be to any traveler. Especially those traveling slowly across foreign borders and living within different cultures and religions.
There had been plans to get out to Kyrgyzstan at least a month before the race, with the hope of finally riding the Pamir Highway in Tajikistan. In 2012, during my two yearlong tour, I arrived in the capital of Dushanbe with hopes of returning to China by the Pamir Highway. A few days into my route, and while I was close to dying in a river crossing, a civil war had broken out in the eastern regions, and the country closed its borders and the roads that would get me close to the China border.
Headed for the Pamirs. Tajikistan 2012 Photo: Chris-Alexandre
Yet again, the borders were closed because of unrest. Nothing new or surprising, and I would make do with routes through Kyrgyzstan.
After fine-tuning my “Baby Yak” for months with Jubal in Chillicothe, I arrived in Bishkek with my bike around 4 am on July 11th. I returned to the Sakura Guesthouse, where I had stayed in 2012. I sat outside and waited about 2 hours for sunrise not to disrupt the hosts.
Jubal and Baby YakArrival to Sakura
THE ARRIVAL
Once in the guesthouse jet lagged, I began tearing apart my luggage and putting my bike together. The excitement was real, and I couldn’t wait to ride my bike in Kyrgyzstan again after ten years!
It was also planned to meet with Nurjamal and her production team to do some videos for Brooks England. We were to start at 4:30 am the following day. We had stayed in touch since working together on the Brooks Media team in 2018 and when they requested some video footage, I couldn’t think of a better place and crew.
Back in Kyrgyzstan
Introducing Baby Yak
My bike is called “Baby Yak” or pronounced “Yak chook” in Tibetan because it was initially built and developed for this SRMR and to ride around eastern Tibet, where I had traversed for the last decade. Both Tibetan and Central Asian, as well as Native American shamanistic beliefs, are strong on animal symbols that are referred to as totem animals or “power animals.” In Tibetan legend, wild yak is said to be “stars” living in heaven, and the yak is always imagined to be a safeguarding god.
Ever since photographing the inaugural Silk Road Mountain Race in 2018, I had dreamed of one day returning to Kyrgyzstan with my bike to ride in the “world’s most difficult bicycle race”. Four years later, that dream became a reality and a life-changing event. Thank you Brooks England for asking me to be your gear-sponsored rider and giving me a platform to share my story.
4 Year Dream: A Return to Kyrgyzstan and The Silk Road Mountain Race January 12th, 2023WanderCyclist
It’s been two years, one month, and a couple of weeks since I have been able to return to my heaven on Earth. The summer before this last visit, I began to film the places I return to during my solo adventures and record the people that have become close friends and family.
You’ll be able to meet some people that mean the world to me and whom I miss dearly. You’ll meet Gayla, my Tibetan Ama, Gama the monk, and Jamyang Tsomo. Jamyang Tsomo is about 6 months pregnant in this film and her childbirth is why I returned later that winter, to only get stuck in Garze because of the Covid outbreak.
I think about these people on a daily basis and my heart longs to return. Perhaps this experience has allowed me to come closer to understanding and sympathizing with the Tibetan diaspora and refugees that have left their motherland and may never return. Will this make me a better photographer, and human, when I finally can return to Tibet? Who knows. But I do know that’s cemented the fact that there may never be a “next time” or chances to give a proper goodbye.
The time away, and the longing to communicate through WeChat, is one of the catalysts to start studying Tibetan. It’s a way to stay connected to them, but also occupy my mind on a daily basis with something that means so much to me.
That summer, I remember wondering who would I be without Tibet. It felt like my entire career, identity, and socializing revolved around Tibet. I worked like a madwoman to be able to afford trips to Tibet. My entire life consisted of that one single goal. It was the reason I put my pants on every morning for nearly a decade.
And then…poof. It happened. I lost a place, friends, and my identity. And for the last two years, I’ve been building upon what started a little over a decade. Maybe you can start to connect the pieces of why I’m wanting to race and continue studying the languages of the places I love.
The song was sung by my friend, Jacob’s sister. I was staying with them when Covid broke out two years ago and obviously something happened because I was removed from his WeChat and wouldn’t accept my friend request. Again, many stories that hopefully will find their way to these pages someday.
This film was edited by a friend that I had met in Kham when I bought a horse a few years back, Mikey Matthews. I guess that’s another story for another time.
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Tribute: A short film to honor the people of Tibet. September 19th, 2022WanderCyclist
I’ve been telling myself for the last few years I was going to bring this blog back to life. Maybe it was a silent promise of my rise from the ashes. But here we are, again, turning the corner on a ten-year anniversary of completing that “epic” bike tour. (I’ve learned a few buzz words over the last few years but don’t worry, I’m not pursuing a career as an influencer.)
Sitting here in my photography studio gallery here in Dayton, Ohio with my Tibetan language textbooks open and trying to figure out how to schedule training for my next ultra, I thought maybe I’d peck a few lines out here to get the fire started. To push those wheels a little forward.
Where do I go, and how far do I return, to catch you up to today. Do I start now and fill in the pieces as we go along?
Singletrack in New Mexico. Currently one of my favorite states to ride in as it reminds me so much of Asia.
I live in Dayton Ohio and have since February 2020. There was a plan to return from China and I had been photographing hotels around China from about 2017 to 2020, which allowed me to save a little nest egg to return to the US and continue my travels and work “out west”. I was in Garze when Covid exploded two years ago and through all the drama and heartbreak, I left the second week of February of 2020 and haven’t returned. Fortunately, I had already begun the process to move back to the US so I didn’t lose too much. But I did have a-frantic-boxing-up-day right before I boarded my last flight from China. Abandoned a storage unit but was able to get three large boxes of my possessions home…there is a surfboard from Lombok still sitting in a friend’s AirBnb in Shanghai. (Oh yeah, I took up surfing in Indonesia a few years back.)
So since coming “home”, I’ve built a photography studio/gallery here in Ohio, taken up mountain biking, and am currently in my third semester of Tibetan language studies at Indiana University Bloomington. Working on that second foreign language and this time, formally. And…I have found myself pursuing ultra-endurance races.
I had planned on returning to Tibet during the summer of 2021 for an anniversary ride. Even had a custom titanium rig built from a buddy in Shanghai but obviously, that didn’t happen. So what would I choose to do instead? I decided to race in the Big Lonely last October.
Why an ultra? Because I had photographed the Silk Road Mountain Race in Kyrgyzstan during August of 2018 for Brooks England. It was really my first exposure to racing not to mention the refined and compressed idea of long-distance touring. Besides meeting so many rad folks, I was captivated by the endurance aspect and how so many skills are needed besides just staying upright and pedaling after not sleeping for two days. (I tested myself during the Big Lonely and went 36 hours with no sleep. The evening hallucinations were spectacular and my eyes saw countless Tibetan nomads and little garden gnomes among the very alive and breathing great pines of the Pacific Northwest.)
So, what did I decide to do after the Big Lonely? Well, of course. I signed up, registered, and paid my entrance fees to race in the Silk Road Mountain Race 2022. Seems only like the normal thing to do. Right?
I may not be the fastest or strongest (although I’ve been weight training since December) but I know I can go days without speaking to anyone, possess those mountain skills that only come with living on a bike for two years, and as people said during the Big Lonely, I’m “tenacious”. I was the only cyclist that pushed my bike over the last pass of the race during the snow and then continued for four hours with all my lights burnt out while navigating singletrack by moonlight.
Did I get soft with age? I’m in the best shape of my life. Physically. Covid gave me the time to invest in myself. More bike riding, language learning, started some cognitive behavior therapy, and I even scooped up a dude that loves bikes almost as much as I do. We can thank Nick for the pics.
Shredding those New Mexico singletrack trails.
So, before I get too deep, I thought this would be a good first step in the forward direction. I’m working hard on my issues of perfectionism and how it brings up self-sabotaging procrastination.
I had told myself I’d write more about the Big Lonely race but of course, the pots in the front boiled over and that got thrown to the back. There was that familiar depression after the race and I’m lucky that I’m familiar enough with that feeling after a big trip, to know that it would pass. And of course, it did.
My little brother is a GOAT…and I’m still photographing!
My Spring Break begins on Friday, as I had my Tibetan midterm on Friday. I am finishing up this week in my studio with some portrait edits and preparing to dip out of the US for the entire summer. My plan is to give a go at blogging about a US trip, on singletrack, not alone. Ooof, so many new things.
Bikes are still my life but the true reason I get up every morning and carry on is for the people and places that became a part of me in 2010. That bicycle tour never really ended, I just got off the bike for a bit. I knew I needed to do something more than to enjoy the privileged life. I’ll pause here, for now, and leave you with the last two articles about my work over the last decade.
Considering the last two years, I’ve made the best of it. I am still working as a photographer. I still love bicycles. And I even love a special dude that rides bikes with me. So, not too much to complain about except just not enough time. Time. The greatest commodity. And on that, I’ll save you some time.
Curious to know who will navigate here. How many of you are still on a mailing list. And what in the hell will come of this site…and I just want to put a horizontal pen line through “update Wandercyclist” on my To Do list.
See ya out there, or around here ol’pals.
Tibetan Language, Singletrack, Ultra-Endurance Races, a Photo Studio, and a Life in the USA. March 9th, 2022WanderCyclist
As I plan to return to the region this summer, and by bike, I thought I would put together some old footage of cycling the Silk Road (Southern Route) to Kashgar.
Cycling the Silk Road (to Kashgar) Video Footage from 2012 May 9th, 2018WanderCyclist
During June of last year I began preparing from one of the scariest events of my life. I was to give a TEDx talk to an estimated audience of 900 people here in Shanghai. Perhaps, someday, I’ll write about the experience and how it changed me for life.
TEDxShanghaiWomen, It’s Time To Live Fearlessly March 28th, 2017WanderCyclist
For years Eleanor Moseman has let her inspiring photos draw attention to the daily life of regular people in far away lands. As much anthropological as artistic, the bond she shares with the subjects of her photography elevate her images from mere observation to, in their entirety, a powerful statement about global humanity, peace, and the possibilities inherent through open-minded cycle travel.
“Ni haipa ma?” (Are you scared?)
As a woman traveling through Asia alone, specifically into remote and desolate areas of China, my gender is often the most obvious aspect of my identity. I have spent over 5 years cycling, trekking, hitching, and exploring Asia and have had nearly every part of my body touched, rubbed, groped,or grabbed by uninvited hands. Catching eyes on a train platform or across a police captain’s desk, assuming I’m oblivious and naive to the wolf in the guise of a sheep. (A police captain in the Gobi of China once told me I couldn’t camp in the desert because of the wolves. The only wolf witnessed was the one telling me this fearful tale, wearing the uniform of an officer.) Fear is used to control and I refuse to allow anyone, or anything, to exert power over my life choices. Gender is not a valid reason to abstain from exploring the world, cultures, and myself. The risks have always been worth the personal reward found at the end of an adventure. My life choices may be easier and deemed more socially acceptable were I born a man, but that’s not a choice and never was.
For the preservation of my true self, of soul, heart, and mind, I have learned to separate my physical presence and identity from who I truly am. After uncomfortable incidents, I have looked at my body as if parts were now diseased, tainted, or just as some strange alien extension of my physical presence. Perhaps if I were to dismember myself I wouldn’t have to bear being tormented by strangers, or even those that have feigned friendship, who think it’s appropriate to invade my physical being.
People continually ask me why I do it, after reading my tales of near rape, threats to my life, weeks of hunger, loss of sanity, and other moments that have invited fleeting moments of fear. Why? Because these are momentary, brief, the unusual. More often I am greeted with care, friendship, and love from strangers who have become friends and family for a lifetime.
I’ve discovered my capabilities and resilience that would never have been found if I hadn’t constantly pushed personal boundaries while crossing regions, foreign borders, mountain ranges, deserts, and continents. Surely I’m not a professional explorer or adventurer but more likely a professional at failures. Those downtrodden moments when I’m screaming at the heavens in fury, panic, fear, or confusion questioning every movement and choice up to the moment – when I’ve nearly lost all faith in myself – is when an adventure reveals its purpose. One purpose has, and will always be, more than just about altitudes, miles, or countries. It’s about what I learn about myself and place in this mystical, wonderful, and often chaotic world.
Voices from women travelers still remain a minority, although our travelogues have been around as long as men’s, have only recently been gaining a mass audience among a general population. (“My Journey From Lhasa” by Alexandra David-Neel sits to my side, published in 1927.) We offer an alternative view, a sometimes very emotional monologue, to our male traveling comrades. I have been allowed to play with children unsupervised, infants are tossed into my arms for my care, or so often invited to the ever-popular dance party with Muslim women behind closed doors. Women divulge their secrets to me, their hopes and dreams, their sadness and despair. Even when language barriers mean I don’t always understand every word, nevertheless as women we understand one another.
My story is different from men’s, and from that of many other tourists who come through China. I’ve lived in China for over 7 years and speak enough of the language to have an understanding of people and culture. The motivation behind my endeavors is simple curiosity. There is a craving of knowledge about people, cultures, customs, environments, and through these discoveries I’ve found inspiration for leading a mindful and proactive life while fueling love for the world, others, and self. This knowledge I obtain from a life on the road is something that I seek out for personal reasons but feel that it should be shared with others that may not have the good fortune to travel the way so few of us can.
A hoped for outcome of my travels, photography, and writing has always been to inspire someone, perhaps a young girl, to pursue her dreams however difficult they may seem. Whether it’s a girl from a small Chinese village that has motivation to study English or a young woman from the States that just can’t seem to find where she fits into modern society. The inner journey takes precedent over the gear, route, mileage, or any statistics, as this isn’t a performance of heroism or endurance. It’s about the highs and the lows, the peaks and valleys, of a journey and where it leads me. Epiphanies and new questions come and go as constant as the tides of the sea and as steady as the symphonies of glaciers.
We all know that it takes a little crazy to travel alone by bicycle, foot, or whatever means for months, years, or indefinitely. Perhaps my stories are an invite for all weirdos, misfits, outcasts, lone huntresses to find their unique path and ride onward with conviction, love, and passion. That route has been created just for…YOU.
A woman that travels alone should not bring to mind the idea of fear or danger. We have obstacles men may never face while sometimes our journey is less difficult because men and women want to help that lonesome weary woman on the road where the destination is only to be discovered by her.
So, to answer the question with which I opened: No. I am not scared. Not living my life the way I want to, is the only thing I fear.
The Bugle, Issue 8 2016, 150th Anniversary of Brooks England July 27th, 2016WanderCyclist
A resolution for the year is to write at least an hour a day so I thought that an attempt at completing this travelogue would be a good warm up. Also, apologies for the quality of this post’s photos, since all my camera gear had been submerged in the river and I was still in shock throughout the day. (New visitors, you can scroll down to find “Tajikistan, Part 3 (July 23, 2012)”.
I stand there, wet up to my armpits but drying quickly in the +40C Pamir heat, in shock. Looking at my gear, looking at my bruises and scratches and trying to make sense of it all. I was an idiot. It could of all been prevented by just keeping the Ego on the shore.
When in the work truck with the two local men, we had passed a work station about 50 meters behind wear I am currently standing. Looking ahead, up a a very rocky path to the pass, I can hear them working behind me, sounds similar to any car mechanic shop in the West.
Two men approach me from the building. One a very petite blonde, blue eyed Russian man and a man that may be local but quite dapper and hip for being a Tajik stuck out in the middle of nowhere. The blonde man smiles at me and asks if I’m okay. I can barely make words of anything that makes sense. Nodding and point to my stuff strewn all about. I ask him if they had seen my friend that I had parted ways with the previous day. They had seen him in the morning, or at least that is what I made sense of the conversation. Both men seem friendly enough and the blonde man tells me they will help me because I am “a woman” and they “are men”. I guess chivalry is well and alive.
After walking away, talking to each other, an old white Land Rover pulls up within 15 minutes with the local man driving and the Russian in the passenger seat. We load all my gear onto the top of the truck, but I can barely move so they do most of the work and I handle some of the lighter bags. I had to quickly collect all my gear that had been drying in the sun and most everything had dried, although I saw condensation building up in camera lenses.
The road up to the pass is steep jeep path with large rocks, ranging from fist size to the size of a man’s head. It’s a very rough ride and I’m being thrown from side to side of the back of the truck as the speakers are very loud playing American pop songs. I distinctly remember The Cardigans and Aqua “Barbie Girl” being played at least a half dozen songs during the ride up to the pass. There were only about 6 songs on the tape so it looped a few times between making it to the pass. Of course I’m making small talk with the two gentlemen helping me. The basic questions of marriage, children, home country and the sort. I’ll never forget how blonde the Russian was with the most brilliant blue eyes. The Tajik man with a modern, and hipster, version of a faux hawk. He would of made every young woman in Williamsburg, Brooklyn swoon.
We get out at the top of the pass and they take turns taking photos with me. I regrettably did not take their photos; my mind wasn’t in the best position to be making any sort of decisions or thought processes.
I look down the pass and the road is still rough terrain of at least a half dozen switchbacks. It’s about 3 in the afternoon so I’m hoping to make it to the village at the end of the mountains before nightfall.
They help me load up the bike and they wave me off with smiles and cheers. I begin riding, very slowly, down the pass and every time I make a switch back, the sound of their cheers can be heard from the pass as they can see me. I look over my shoulder to see the sun setting, and the sounds of the cheers become fainter and fainter as I wave to them…only hoping they know how thankful I am for their time and effort. Those cheers and waves from the mountain top was probably morale I really needed to keep me going.
There is another water crossing further down and to not risk anything this time, I unload the entire bike and slowly and carefully carry everything across. I’ve learned a lesson for life.
The road is still pretty rough on the other side and the sun is setting fast. I begin riding down and since it’s beginning to get dark I start shouting “Chris”! every time I see a clearing or somewhere I may see my former riding partner from the last week. Hoping maybe I would of caught up with him and could find someone to cry to.
I finally make it the village at the base of the mountain pass at nightfall. Slowly I walk around with my bike looking for a “Kofe” or a hotel where I can find a safe warm place to sleep for the night. Without finding one I go to the edge of town, cross a bridge, and see a security officer in his little shipping container. Since I’m getting close to the Pamirs where I will need a permit, everyone is being stopped, IDs scrutinized, and asked where we are coming from and where we are going.
The officer invites me into his “office” and home with another security guard there. All daylight has now been lost and I explain where I’m going, where I’ve come from, and that I need to find a place to sleep. I’m hoping he’ll offer some floor space there but it’s not. Describing Chris-Alexandre to him, I ask him if he had seen him. The two guys that helped me over the pass said they had seen him that morning so it’s very possible he could be in the village so I want to make sure he hasn’t continued through. The officer opens his book from that day and I don’t see his name written on the log…I turn the page to the previous day and there is Chris’ name, written down from the previous morning. My heart sinks. There is no way I’ll catch up with him.
Disheartened, I leave the officer to try and find a place to sleep. He said there was an affordable hotel in the village so I go to look. After walking around until after 10pm, without finding one, I go to the covered pavilion that is used for an open air market or bazaar. The town is quiet for the most part and I lay out my sleeping bag on one of the tables used for selling produce. I’m in so much physical pain and absolutely exhausted. I know that I won’t be able to sleep in the next day for the fact I’ll be in plain sight and perhaps the bazaar will even be used in the morning. Hobbling up onto the table, I slide into my sleeping bag with the sound of dogs barking near by.
Letting out a deep breath, I almost didn’t survive the day. Laying out on that table, so uncomfortable in my body, I recount the day over and over and over…regretting every single decision. I also regret not having kept up with this writing as it’s very difficult to recount everything from 4 years ago.
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Happy New Year to all of you.
Last week, I finally was able to see a doctor about my back pain. I don’t talk a lot about it but it’s near crippling at times and it disheartens me at times to think how this may prevent me from moving forward into other travel projects that may take a toll on me. The prognosis isn’t good but I knew it wouldn’t be good news. It seems that the car wreck, that I was a passenger in, from my early 20s really messed me up and then an extended 10 years of neglect and more injuries has exacerbated the problems. I refuse to allow this to slow me down and I’ll just have to be more conscious of what I do and to keep weight off my back.
So, here is my first writing exercise for the year and I hope to keep up to the task. Among this blog, I’ll also hopefully be writing the past two stories from my treks out into Eastern Tibet…including the part about my horse running away.
Tajikistan, Part 4 (July 23, 2012) August 2nd, 2018WanderCyclist
