I just returned after spending a month in Kham, Tibet (Sichuan, China). It was a beautiful experience, new, rough, and at times very emotional.
Sometimes people allow “life” to become such a heavy burden they become so weighted down they can’t find the strength to really live. Trust me, it’s not easy at times…and there are tears, there is heartbreak, there is waking up every morning to myself, and at times telling myself to be quiet because I’m tired of hearing my own voice. I’ve seen poverty at it’s worst and I’ve seen happiness and love at an intensity I will never be able to describe. I can not carry the burdens of you, or the world, my fellow man and woman, or my own…because if I were to do so, I wouldn’t be able to find the energy or time to love you, and you, and you and you and you and mostly, YOU!
Asia
Choose to live.
“Just choose one, Moseman…both will you lead you somewhere”. At a crossroads where I don’t have a legal permit to be, only 2 buses passing a day, 1 liter of water remaining, eating emergency food rations, and extended time at that altitude was causing horrendous physical effects, I was predicting my demise…you don’t have time to sit at a crossroads examining the paths to see which seems to show a history of more travel or kicking dirt around trying to forsee what will be at the end of each road. It’s not about the path we choose in life, it’s about making a choice and then cycling through with conviction, passion, dedication, free thought, and open heart. It’s not what route you choose that matters, it’s how you live through the journey that you felt was the “right”one at that moment. People say they are “lost”, no, they aren’t…they have chosen not to choose…they haven’t yet begun their journey. How can you be lost in life when you aren’t even living? This ain’t the gospel…just the inner-ramblings of a long-distance-lunatic-cyclist on a saga with skies in the eyes and a fiery heart that rules my journey.
Guess what ya’ll?! I’ve decided to hunker down in late winter/early spring to write the book. Yes…it’s ready to be spilled and chapters written that never graced this blog.
Mercy
Hours spent sitting along the banks of Namucuo, the highest alpine lake on Earth, watching the current bring the most crystal clear water to my feet. Complete silence except for a single heartbeat, the pulsing of my own blood, and the water gently rolling and crashing to accompany the beat of my own rhythm. No one around for as far as eyes could see, small schools of fish coming to the surface, massive black ravens along the bank tending to themselves, and thousands of insects silently skimming across the lake. The waters and skies merging into one along the horizon, unable to differentiate between earth and the heavens. We are one and at the mercy of it all.
Lake Namu in Tibet Autonomous Region
Uzbekistan, Part 4: Bukhara to Samarkand (June 21st – June 26 2012)
Arriving to Bukhara by ten o’clock am, as I had been on the road since 4 am because of the previous night’s assault.
I arrive into the city center and begin looking for hotels in the area. Roaming around and around and around in the heat, I feel myself coming to a near collapse. My cure for most ailments is ice cream and a cold soda.
Walking over to a market where I can refill my SIM card so I can access Google Maps and grab an ice cream.
Sitting on the curb in the shade, trying to regain my since of my direction, I notice how ill I’m beginning to feel.
A young Uzbek comes up to me and tries to speak with me in broken English. He offers me a cold Coca Cola in a glass bottle and we sit trying to communicate about the usual basics. I finish the soda and he offers me another with exclaiming I should wait as he wants to show me something.
He returns with a laptop that appears to have a bootleg video playing. I can hear the vague sound of English and realize he’s grinning at me as he’s showing me pornography. Setting the soda down, I say thanks and leave.
Very kind locals help me navigate through the historic part of Bukhara to find a hotel. The first one I try I notice it’s all women around and taking care of the business matters. After the past couple days this is exactly what I want and need. I pay the basic fee for at least three nights, load my belongings into a small and simple room and literally collapse. Physically exhausted. Something much more than fatigue and my body is not feeling right. It is reminiscent of the days of dysentery but my head feels messed up as well.
For the remaining of the day and into the night I’m drinking my emergency supply of drink supplements for dehydration. It’s the only thing I can think of since I’ve been in the desert for so long with the blazing heat down on me ever day.
Once it cools down a bit and think I can actually leave the room, with no appetite, I walk out to the center area of the old town to refill my water supply. Walking back to my room I see a young man with a touring bike talking to a local girl. It’s been ages since I’ve seen another cyclist and of course introduce myself and we begin chatting.
His name is Chris-Alexandre of www.allschoolproject.ch
He is stuck in Bukhara for about another week as he was bit by a dog and tending to his rabies shots. Both of us are ill, him from the rabies treatment and me from whatever I’m suffering from. (It turns out that many cyclists will get sick in Bukhara, and Uzbekistan in general, and we hear it may have something to do with the cooking in cotton oil and our bodies not being able to process it.)
A little site seeing in Bukhara as I don’t have plans for staying as it’s extremely touristy and I want to be back on the road. I have also been spoiled by kind strangers helping me and in Bukhara I’m scammed by a man who wants to show me around. This post is starting to sound like a lot of negative things so I’d like to not go into detail as Uzbekistan is still one of my favorite countries and the hospitality I was shown was some of the best.
It was great spending a few days with Chris-Alex and making plans to meet back up in Samarkand. He had befriended a wonderful young local woman that sold her paintings and her mother had another shop of porcelains and souvenirs. I would end up buying a few of her paintings for Christmas gifts.
I would leave Bukhara on the morning of the 24th of July, 2012.
…and OF COURSE, by now you’ve learned I do anything I possibly can to not take the beaten path.
It’s a little difficult to navigate to the small road I found on the map but locals help direct me at a busy intersection on the edge of town. Of course I’ve gotten a bit of a late start and the sun is beating down on me and I can feel my body weakening under the desert sun. As I approach the small road for the turn off after about an hour of riding, a car pulls up to me and pours out cold water from a thermos. Sitting here, writing this nearly two years later, this memory is still so vivid. I remember how amazing the cold water felt in my mouth and going down my throat, almost as if dropping my body temperature by a few degrees. Their smiles and waves will never be forgotten; they helping out a stranger and guest in their country and me being so thankful for such a gracious and simple act of kindness. Cold, clean water. That may have been one of the most memorable drinks of water of my life.
Before finding camp that evening, I had a nice man offer me to come watch a football (soccer) game with him. If my memory serves me correctly, it was the World Cup and is quite popular everywhere in the world. After being in a touristy city for a few days, I politely decline, and fantasize about being all alone once again in my tent.
I am now all alone on the golden road to Samarkand.
The Golden Road to Samarkand by James Elroy Flecker
HASSAN:
Sweet to ride forth at evening from the wells,
When shadows pass gigantic on the sand,
And softly through the silence beat the bells
Along the Golden Road to Samarkand.
ISHAK:
We travel not for trafficking alone;
By hotter winds our fiery hearts are fanned:
For lust of knowing what should not be known
We take the Golden Road to Samarkand.
MASTER OF THE CARAVAN:
Open the gate, O watchman of the night!
THE WATCHMAN:
Ho, travellers, I open. For what land
Leave you the dim-moon city of delight?
MERCHANTS (with a shout):
We take the Golden Road to Samarkand!
(The Caravan passes through the gate)
THE WATCHMAN (consoling the women):
What would ye, ladies? It was ever thus.
Men are unwise and curiously planned.
A WOMAN:
They have their dreams, and do not think of us.
VOICES OF THE CARAVAN (in the distance singing):
We take the Golden Road to Samarkand.
On the morning of the 25th I would wake up as the sun begins peaking above the horizon. The golden rays turning the sky from black to blue and there is complete silence and stillness of the air. I would sit on my hilltop looking into the countryside contemplating life, feelings; truly living in the present moment and being so thankful to be where I was. On my chosen hillside for camp, a shepherd would greet me as I finish packing up my gear and we make a little small talk. Waving goodbye, I’m on the road just as dawn breaks.
Later in the afternoon I would be sitting on the side of the road looking out into cotton fields.
A boy comes up to me and starts trying to speak to me in English. He leaves. He then returns with his mother and younger brother. I remember her being beautiful and she refused to let me take her photo. The three of us sat on the side of the road together for about an hour just staring out into the fields and talking on occasion. They would leave for the late afternoon nap, and I’m left alone again, but not for too long.
A car pulls up and 4 men exit. I’m asked if I’m French and I say “no”. Then the jokester puts his hands on his hips and starts thrusting his pelvis back and forth while saying “sex sex sex”. I’m utterly disgusted and get up and leave.
At night fall I would go into a cafe hoping they would let me sleep outside after I eat and pay for my dinner. The usual questions are asked but I’m not invited for a stay and see no women around anyhow. It probably wouldn’t be the best after this streak of luck I’ve been having.
I ride my bike into the night for about an hour until I see a cleared field. Pushing my bike down through a ditch and heaving it over dried grass, I walk about 2 kilometers from the street. I throw my tent up in just a matter of minutes and collapse.
The afternoon of June 26th 2012 I would arrive in Samarkand.
Tibet and Xinjiang
Until Friday, April 18th 2014, I am making a newly published eBook available for free! It’s an electronic version of “Life on the Tibetan Plateau”. This e-version has an added bonus of the text that was printed in the Brooks Bugle.
You can download from here: Life on the Tibetan Plateau
Also, last week a collection of 139 Uyghur photographs were published into an eBook as well. You can download by visiting: Uyghur
Partners
I knew the day was coming upon me, for the second time. The last week has been fleeting memories of riding with the Belgian brothers, Matthieu and Lucas of NESW by Bike. Walking outside today with a short sleeve shirt on and remembering walking along snow and ice with frozen boots, over the Irkeshtam Pass…freezing.
There is something about cycling with someone, or a pair of brothers, that is very special and a bond that will last forever. I can even hear their voices echoing in my thoughts today. But there is something even more special of a bond when you work together as a team to make it through some of the toughest days I’ve seen. It was not the first risky place I’d been, and surely not the last, although my tour would only continue for about 5 months afterwards.
I’ve cycled with a total of 4 men, and each one of them has a special place in my heart. The first went on for 6 weeks and the last would be only 3 days, although we would spend a lot of time stuck in Dushanbe together. The word “partner” means something to me that most people can not define and I can’t with words. Even now, one years and 4 months from my temporary retirement, the idea of “relationship”, “partner”, “friend” take on a completely different meaning.
A partner is someone that encourages you to excel, encourages you to push beyond those barriers set only by yourself, encourages you to live your dream and passion even if it may mean they are absent during those times. Not just someone to help carry the water, the gear, or fix a puncture or set up camp. A partner is someone you can go an entire day without speaking and then under a star filled sky, you share your personal epiphanies that were dreamed up during the day. Excitement in each other’s voices, recognizing where these thoughts come from…deep within the wandering soul…searching for something more within themselves and the world. Respect for one another and appreciation of the differences that in all reality, make the team that much stronger.
There are a few men I encountered along my travels that I never cycled with or spent time with on the road…and these few are still very special to me. The ones I can write to when I’m bogged down with “reality”, when I am having a hard time finding my footing, a relationship between two people that remind one another of their strength’s. They are also the ones I can write to when I have exciting news or something happening in my life and they share my excitement. We share excitement through emails and Skype of our future plans, or map purchases, or just the simple act of discussing dinner plans.
Sure, if I were to sum up my trip I would say it’s when I learned to love myself. But, I also learned what it’s like to care about and love strangers, just for the simple fact we are all looking for something more in our life, in the universe. Whether we are on 2 wheels, in a bus, walking, hitch-hiking…we all know there is something more out there for us. We’ve chosen an unconventional path to find the answers in our life and as a group of dirtbags, misfits, hobos, gypsies…it’s our duty to help our partners when we see struggle.
Let’s put down that ego of who has cycled the furthest, the most countries, the highest peak, who has done it solo or with a girlfriend or boyfriend. Who cares if they take a bus, who cares if they fly somewhere, who cares if the bike is thrown on the back of a lorry for a day, who cares? Why should anyone care about how someone else wants to conduct their journey? Surely, we all know, there are those that are out for the records and the glory but that’s not my game nor for the company I keep. We do it because we all need answers…we all having a burning desire…a curiosity that MUST be answered within this lifetime.
One of my biggest pieces of advice, for solo travelers especially, is to keep these people you will meet on the road close to your heart. When you return home you will need these people and they will need you. The partnership will never end, the bond is tighter than any chain that my bicycle has ever had rotating around that steel drive train.
The Brooks Bugle 2014
I have a bit of exciting news for all of you.
During the first week in Dhaka, as I was preparing for the adventure over the next 3 weeks, Brooks England requested I write an essay for their annual publication The Brooks Bugle. At a coffee shop, under a dupatta and snuggled into a bright batik shalwar kameez, I pecked out a piece that felt as if I released a part of my soul into the universe. It felt good to write, like this, again. It felt great to relive those experiences but at the same time reminding myself who I am and what I stand for.
The Brooks Bugle is a publication of 150,000 and distributed through shops, subscribers, and each saddle and bag sold throughout 2014 will include one. I’m so humbled by the response to this piece. It was almost 4 years ago I embarked on this physical journey, and it’s been an emotional one since.
I am not sponsored by Brooks and it was a delight and honor to be asked because of my previous accomplishments. I’ve added the text below this blog post to make it easier to read.
Currently going through these files from last month, I have a couple of stories that I feel are just incomplete. This is why I’m not sharing them publicly. Sitting here in awe of the people I shared life with in one of the most horrible conditions I’ve ever seen. I’m using all my possible resources to try and find funding to continue this very important work. I’ll be privately emailing folks soon, with a few limited edition prints available in hopes to raise funds to continue this work. This really gives me a punch in the pride, but I have limited options right now. There were so many of you that donated generously to my Kickstarter because you believed in the work I was doing, and this current body of work is equally important. There were so many of you that didn’t want a reward, you just wanted to see me succeed, you wanted to see the faces that meant something to me. My eye and technique has developed so much over the past few years and I feel like that the stories I am trying to tell need to be told. Humbly yours, forever – Moseman.
(Now we read the news about supposed terrorists looming through Xinjiang. There is no proof yet that Uyghurs were responsible but it’s already been publicized that they are at fault. You can bet I won’t be wearing headscarves around China any time soon.)
Meet Shabana. She’s an adolescent living in the slums of Dhaka. I went with her to her home where she showed me a photo of her future husband. When leaving Dhaka, I did not get to say goodbye to her because she now works in the garment industry. Her mother was a cook and cleaner where I was staying, so the message has been passed along that I will return and hopefully get to see her again. Shabana was my Bengali teacher for the first week in Bangladesh.
When talking to with young women, and recent brides, it’s not the arranged marriage that sits wrong with me. It’s not my place as a white Western woman to try and change the culture and tradition. What saddens me is that there is no support or therapy for these young women when they fall into depression and confusion after being put into a strange household, a young husband, and strange parent in laws.
There are nearly 3999 other images I want to share, but I chose this one because she’s a young lady I saw over a course of a few days and I have a bit of an emotional attachment to. She braided/plaited my hair horribly a few times, with me nearly falling asleep in her sweet arms when combing her fingers through my dry, ratty hair.
If you’d like to be taken off the mailing list as well, please don’t hesitate to email me at [email protected]. I’m a thick skinned gal and can handle it. Also I know how these days we are bombarded with emails.
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Text from The Brooks Bugle:
A horizon of 360 degrees, the most vivid and rich blue skies you only dream of and at times standing on my tippy toes thinking I might actually be able to pluck a cloud from the heavens. Days would pass with seeing exactly 2 buses and if I were lucky a few lorries and a half a dozen motorbikes pimped out with neon colors and a speaker loaded on the back pumping American hip hop. Washboard roads and sometimes jeep tracks that cut through the plateau in the general direction I think I want to traverse. Locals have lined stones along the edge of the roads in hopes to prevent the tourism industry loaded into Land Rovers from ruining this desolate, dry, arid, and vacant space.
My feet sore from walking, inspecting the soles being worn down in the heels and at times catching my feet dragging. The sun is boiling my skin and I have every millimeter covered except my face and the two top knuckles of my fingers. If I get out of the sun I freeze.
I have no detailed maps, just some crap tourist map of China, as I never had intent of crossing into the Tibetan Autonomous Region. My riding partner of six weeks, that I had randomly met in Litang, and I had a very heated, abrupt, and emotional break up in a the middle of a yak field days after crossing over. Along with the absence of maps there was also no fuel for my alcohol stove as we had come to rely on his gas burner. I would NEVER find myself to not be self sufficient again.
Every night in my camp, marking the weeks since I had a shower, I would examine my feet noticing they are turning more and more blueish. My fingernails are pulling away from the bed, my ears are constantly ringing along with the constant “thud” of my heartbeat felt within my ear canal and all over my head. Lying down in my tent with the inability to sleep, hungry, I wonder if this is what it feels to be buried alive. At times I genuinely feel like I am going insane and even avoid nomads because I do not want to alert them of the mad woman on a bicycle.
This was the time of my life. These weeks and the months leading up to it would mark a major transformation of who I was and who I am today. Realizing how damn insignificant I am in this world, as Eleanor, as a human, and how we all are at the complete mercy of nature. There is no fresh water on the plateau, hail storms can give you a twenty minute warning and beat the hell out of you. Snapping tent poles because of the cold wind blasting at you and there is no wind shield at 5400 meters. Pouring cold water into your instant noodles while you set up your bed for the night hoping they will be soft for consumption in a few minutes. I had to eat as my 6′ frame was already down to 53 kgs a few weeks before and I know it was probably much lower at this point. Looking at my hands I could see the veins, tendons, and bones protruding more than ever before. Catching a glimpse of my hip bones in the tent at night, sometimes I wondered how I even had any strength to carry on during the days. There was NO option.
I have never felt so free in my entire life. People ask if I was lonely these days and I honestly can say the fullness I carried in my heart kept me company every second. If I looked hard enough along the horizon I could spot a nomad and a young child…or a shepherd woman perched on a cliff watching over her flock of sheep. Finding a nomad gypsy camp and witnessing an outrageous Shaman ritual or spending the morning helping a family of 10 children prepare for a journey to a local market. Life is full of richness and fleeting moments of pure bliss, but you have to keep moving forward, keep taking risks, keep placing yourself out of your comfort zone to encounter these seconds that make up an entire journey…of life.
With no maps, fear of water supply, I must trust myself because I have no one to help me through this. When you stand on a slight rolling hill on the plateau and you can see hundreds of kilometers ahead with no site of human life, you have to convince yourself there is no other option but to go forward. I’m not going to lie. It was tough. It was one of the most emotionally demanding experiences of my life but I managed to enjoy every second of it too.
This part of my tour of 26,000 kilometers is one of a few where it was more than just cycling. It was about self discovery, learning lessons of life, and becoming an emotionally and mentally stronger person. Moments that are brought to mind to get me through the days, where I find myself back in society a little over a year after pausing my tour. I say “pause” because I will never feel that it has concluded.
I watch our society want, and at times, expect immediate gratification and results. Summiting passes sometimes takes days and a whole lot of patience. One reason I cycle alone is because I really enjoy the ride up. I probably take a lot more breaks on the roadside than most and where I can stare out into the beauty of the world and time seems to lose all meaning. There is nowhere to be, no one to meet, no agenda. I’ll get to the top when I’m ready…there is no rush for me and the hours spent on the side of the road thinking and having revelations about life that I will not remember to the next day is what a lot of my tour was about.
Now it’s very evident this is also how I approach life. At 34 my photography career is just beginning to be something I can call a profession and rely on it completely for income. I received my first camera at 14 and was accepted into a program at 19. As you can see, I’m not a kind of person that gives up and I remind myself it’s about developing a stable and reliable grounding. What person can summit a 5040meter pass without weeks of training leading up to it?
There are too often times we can’t foresee or predict the outcome from our actions. We must have faith that something ahead will peak out and our hopes and dreams will be exceeded. Holding a steady pace and carrying on while remaining to have hope will take us far. Expectations? I carry none. Adding that to a load varying between 60-80kgs at time could be very very hefty. I’d prefer to be surprised when I summit that mountain that lies distant within my site.
When I feel like life is just spiraling out of hand and the switchbacks never seem to cease I put myself back on the saddle and return to the mindset that got me through those years navigating around Asia. I continue to take risks, while trusting myself and knowing there are also millions of people in this world that would be more than happy to help you if they can. Reminding myself I am at the mercy of nature but it will be left up to my own strength and will power to survive, or rather, excel.
Life sure is like a very very long bicycle ride. I have no idea what the destination is but I sure am enjoying the journey…wherever it leads.
Uzbekistan, Part 3: Nurata to Bukhara (June 19th-June 20th 2012)
I wake up before everyone, on the porch with the three young girls I had giggled into the night with.
The sun is just beginning to light the sky to a saturated navy blue. Heat is all I can think about at this point, even with the cool desert breeze going over my dry and burned skin. The few moments before pulling myself up from the sleeping mat, I take a few slow deep breaths and give myself my morning pep talk. It will be okay, today will be good, I will not suffer too much, I will stay alive and find a safe place to stay for this evening. I will listen to music and think about things that need to be thought about. I will work through some of my inner demons and acknowledge my insecurities. I miss my family. I miss my friends. I feel good, I feel strong…I am strong.
Yesterday, the eldest sister had braided/plaited my hair. It hadn’t been washed in a few days and needed a comb run through it. When we had been sitting on the patio, about a dozen of us. She grabbed her comb and came and sat close next to me, letting me know what she wanted to do. I smiled gratefully and nodded yes and took my rubberband out of my braid. I begin to finger comb the braid/plait out and I then feel her hands run through my hair, finger tips gently brushing against my scalp…
…my eyes begin to water and I hold back tears. My eyes are leaking, there is something I’m feeling that I’ve never felt before. An emotion that seems recognizable yet so distant and strange. I have been extremely emotionally neglected, I have gone more than a year without human interaction or intimacy. I’m not talking to a sexual sense, I’m talking when you share a moment with another soul when you let your guard down, you allow them in, you share a connection. I have to hold back from sobbing as she runs her hands through my hair, then the comb, but as she plaits/braids my hair I feel as I almost want to fall back into her and be held. This seem so out of character, so strange for a woman that goes days, weeks, months thinking…and more importantly convincing herself, that she doesn’t need so much human interaction. That she is a loner. You know, as I type this a year and a half later…I’ve only had about 3 fleeting moments since then…of intimacy. Hugs, kisses, and quality conversation is so under-rated. When you haven’t had something for so long you truly cherish the moments of someone embracing you. (A few weeks from this day I will notice another change in me. Since I’ve been “home” I’ve really made an attempt to hug and touch people, because I became too “hard” and scared.)
I wake the younger sister as I put my bag on my bike and she leads me to the road where her sister and mother escort me. It’s been an emotional 12 hours and as I hug the sisters and then the mother, I again hold back tears. There is something in their eyes, something that their soul speaks…it seems we all have some sort of suffering and past words and language barriers, we are all speaking to one another. I call her “mother” and the two “sisters” in Uzbek and thank them. Holding back the tears I ride off towards the bright orange sunrise. I can’t look back…I can’t bear to see their faces. There is a part of me that wants to stay, to live a simple life, to have company, to feel a connection, love, and tenderness.
The day is uneventful as I’m back on a main route to Bukhara. I notice the traffic begins to pick up and the heat gets nearly unbearable again. Stopping for water and shade as much as I can but the shade is becoming minimal.
At sunset I begin looking for a place to camp. It’s all open desert with occasional petrol stations. The traffic slows down and I ride later into the night than I should, it’s not smart to night ride especially on a highway.
About 80km away from Bukhara I see a petrol station. It’s brightly lit and I could see it a few kilometers away. To the left of it is an abandoned building, I am still in the middle of the desert. There is nothing out here except some desert shrubbery and barely trees. I’m tired. I’m exhausted. I just want to lie down and sleep. I’ve been going for over 12 hours now.
I ride past the petrol station and see there is a mechanic working on a truck outside and no one else. Stopping, I look out into the landscape towards the abandoned building. Do I dare explore it and stay inside. There is always a fear in me of camping too far off from a main road. Because it’s a main road, there is a likely possibility of having night visitors. If it weren’t a main road, I usually have less concern. My rationale is if I’m close to the road, if I have problems, it’s easier for me to get help from possible traffic.
Standing on the side of the road, taking a moment to stare into the skies above and noticing how black it is, everywhere. Except for the stars, the moon, and the petrol lights.
I find a place to take my bike off the road and into the sand. Pushing my bike just to the edge of where the petrol lights hit…it lights a triangle out to each side. Probably the length of a half a football field. I had waited to see the attendant go inside or to not be visible.
Pushing the bike through the sand, there is no way I can make it to the abandoned building. Deciding I’ll just lean the bike against a bush and roll out my sleeping mat. *Let me just state NEVER do this in the desert. After what I saw in the early mornings, it’s very very unwise to sleep in the open desert without protection from spiders. When you’re exhausted, sometimes the brain isn’t up to par.
After lying down for about 15 minutes I noticed a flash light. The attendant has spotted me and he’s walking towards me. He then turns back, I assume I will be okay…he’s given up. No. Now he drives a jeep over to me.
He’s a very large man. Asks me what I am doing and he tells me I can sleep in the petrol station. I don’t want to. I’d rather stay out here. He’s insistent on it. So, with very little light I try to pack up my stuff without too much of a hassle and push the bike to the petrol station.
I follow him and roll my bike inside the garage and he directs me to a couch in an interior room next to the garage. I sit down and he explains he will be outside working. It’s around 10pm. I lie down, the room is boiling…I wish I was outside where it’s cooler.
He pays another visit shortly and puts a blanket over me. You’ve got to be kidding me…I’m like a roasting piggy now. What’s worse, the blanket is making my skin crawl. It feels as if my skin is moving and being bit. This is horrendous. As I hear him banging and working on the truck outside, I throw off the blanket and mutter some words about him being an idiot and this filth and go to the garage. I grab my my tent ground cover and go outside. We make eye contact and I explain with hand motions that I’m going to sleep outside next to the garage. I find a place that is shielded by the bright lights.
The skin is no longer crawling and the cool desert breeze dries the sweat off my body within just a couple of minutes. I couldn’t ask for anything better, minus the lights and the constant mechanic’s sounds. There are also brief moments of conversation. My senses being on full alert, I awaken often but not for too long. I figure if I can just get a few hours I’ll be okay for the following day. Only 80km.
Although, every time I wake up I notice my body clenching up more and more from the cold. The temperature is dropping fast and the desert wind picking up. At first it felt good but now it’s beginning to get cold. The shivering begins and I apprehensively get up and grab my ground cover. Going back through the garage, I put my ground cover back in my bag…my bike is packed and I’m ready to leave at a moment’s notice.
All I smell is oil, gas, and dirty human…you know that smell of unwashed linens. I lie down on the couch.
I wake up, it’s around 3:30 am, and I notice the noise has stopped. The lights outside have dimmed. Finally, I can rest my head a little and get some sleep.
No. Someone is walking outside. There is the man’s silhouette in the doorway. He had been checking on me throughout the night but at this moment I knew something was different. He walks slowly into the room and sits on the couch, next to me. I can hear him breathing and see him looking at me. He leans in and grabs my chest with both hands.
I grab his hands and push them away from me. In my head, I distinctly remember thinking, “Here we go again, how am I going to get out of this one?!” Previously, there had been people within shouting distance but this time, there was no one else around. “Moseman, you’ve been here before, stay calm, cool, don’t alert him…you’ll get through this.”
Standing up and going towards my bike he stands clumsily and gets in front of me and grabs my chest again. I place both hands on his chest and push him away from me, shaking and trembling but trying not to show the fear. He’s at least 5″ taller than I and large…all I can imagine is a terrible situation, being crushed under his gigantic body smelling of oil, gas, grease, and unwashed hair. “No, get away, I’m leaving”, all said in English. I haven’t got time or patience to deal with fumbling over Russian with another pervert.
Grabbing my bike, I ride a kilometer away from the station. It’s pitch dark and I wait on the side of the road and I know I have at least two hours before I have any possibility of light.
It’s unsafe to try and hitch at this time of the night, anyhow there is no traffic.
I sit on the side of the road, eat a little naan and peanut butter and relive the past 48 hours. How things can change.
Around 4:30 I begin walking my bike and riding when I can. I’ve let my eyes adjust and it’s not too bad.
By 6:30 I’m pedaling away and at 10am I arrive in Bukhara, exhausted, dirty, and hungry. All I can smell is that man’s garage…the thought of oil and gas making me sick to my stomach.
Trying to find a place to stay in Bukhara, I stop by a little shop to refill my SIM card so I can view maps and buy an ice cream. I feel awfully sick. Maybe it’s the heat. I’m lightheaded and feel on the verge of diarrhea. After I buy my second ice cream and sitting on the stoop, I’m emailing a long distance cyclist and friend that I’ve been in contact with for years. I’ve been telling him a little about the previous days and how I feel so sick.
A young Uzbek shop keeper comes out to talk to me. He brings me an ice cold Coca Cola in a glass bottle. I thank him and put down the phone. We make small talk, his poor English and my poor Russian. When he notices I don’t have any more cola, he asks if I would like another. Surely. He brings out another and he learns I’m American. As I’m finishing up the second he explains he wants to show me something. He grabs his laptop from the cell phone shop, as that’s where I bought my SIM refill from, and sits next to me. Within 30 seconds of staring at a very dark and scrambling laptop screen, he is showing me porn. I look up at him and he’s smiling.
It’s time to go. I find a decent place in the old town of Bukhara for a fair price with air conditioning. It’s quiet and pleasant and I fall onto the bed with exhaustion after a shower. For the remainder of the day I would be running to the toilet and drinking water mixed with packets of electrolyte mix. I’m ill…I’m sick…after all of this.
Uzbekistan, Part 2: Tashkent to Nurata (June 13th-June 18th 2012)
I could of bee lined straight to Samarkand but I decided to head to Bukhara via the Nurata mountains. After researching online, it seemed there were some guesthouses along the small road to the south of the lake that were noted on a tourist site.
Uzbekistan is getting HOT and this is the time I notice I have difficulties photographing in this intense lighting. It hasn’t been like this since Tibet, yet I’m always feeling like I’m melting. After looking through these photos a near year and half later, my face looks like a lobster. Even with sunscreen and a hat there was no way to avoid it.
On June 13th I would leave Tashkent. (I’m going to zip through a lot of this as my memories are fading fast and I don’t believe I was journaling much more these days).
There was nothing exceptional the first day except getting out of the city and traffic. Uzbekistan is full of police checkpoints, I believe more so than Kyrgyzstan. The day begins to end and I’ve found myself on a somewhat quiet and easy road. I spot a cafe behind some trees and it looks fairly empty. It’s a little early for dinner but I just figure I’ll eat and then head on to find a place to camp for the evening. Although I’m still on the outskirts of the city, I’m a little worried about finding a good spot.
I roll into the cafe and there is an older man and woman, that my assumption is they are the owners. I’m correct and they wave me over to sit anywhere I’d like sit. I take a seat at a table and I’m served naan, tea, and I don’t remember what my meal was. Eating slowly, I notice there a few other young women working there that take some curiosity of me and the men ignore me or leave me be. It feels comfortable and safe.
When I pay the check they ask me where I will be sleeping. Of course I tell them I don’t know and I have a tent. They tell me no, and that I will be sleeping inside the cafe tonight. I leave my bike outside, take my expensive items inside and sit at the kitchen table with 3 women. We try to make small talk as they prepare food for the guests. The cafe becomes fairly busy and as the sun sets I’m shown to my own room where I’ll be sleeping. As I make myself comfortable, after bringing my bike inside, I’m served a bowl of plov, naan, and water. It’s a bit of a noisy evening as I can hear chatter outside into the early morning but it’s still a comfortable sleep. Because my bike is not in my room, there is always a bit of paranoia looming over me because it’s not in my site. I just go with it…
I would head out right after sunrise and I waved goodbye to a woman doing the early morning sweeping. It’s already getting warm and I can remember almost exactly how that rising sunshine felt on me that morning.
Continuing on I would get slightly lost on the 14th. I had entered a city and trying to follow the map to skim along the Kazakhstan border and get closer to the Nurata mountains.
At noon I remember getting so hot and pulling over for a cold liter of Coca Cola. I believe I visited nearly 2 shops before finding one that was ice cold. Pulling over to the side of the road in the shade I would drink it down while applying sunscreen and eating some peanut butter on naan. After about an hour of putzing around I tried to find this small road. It turned into a single lane and all of a sudden it felt like I was pedaling over sand. Is my tire flat?…
I’m under the blazing sun, no clouds in sight, and there are grain and cotton fields stretching kilometers in all directions. There are some homes but everyone has taken cover out the sun. To check my tires I set my foot down and I feel it sink into the tarmac…you have got to be kidding me!? I’m riding on melting roads.
After making a half a dozen attempts to find this small road to the mountains, I turn around losing 30 kms and a lot of energy. It could just be looping and I’m not sure where this is going so I head back and just stay on a main route.
Exiting the city I pass by some vacant buildings and a bazaar.
I am on a pretty secluded road at this point and a little concerned where I actually am. Maybe my map reading skills aren’t that exceptional…although I do pretty well in China. Maybe it’s not so much as “wander cyclist” as it is some other form. Honestly, I just kind of go in the general direction I’m supposed to be going and I’ll figure out on the way. Perhaps it’s mostly because I hate planning, it’s the most boring part I think. I don’t like reading websites, tourist books, any of that. I just have a general goal and I enjoy figuring it out in the moment. Ooops, have I let a secret out?
It seems Uzbekistan is going to be the country where I try to find shade constantly. Whenever I see an opportunity after cycling for an hour. I take it. I lied down in this grass for nearly 3 hours with maybe a half dozen cars passing me. I’m not sure what I contemplated, speculated, or dreamed about…but I’m pretty sure it was good. I still clearly remember that spot and the sound the water made in the canal.
After that refreshing lounge I stop to get some biscuits and some water. Sitting in a bus stop next to a police checkpoint, I have some visitors. A friendly bunch, seemingly innocent enough. The little English they can speak, and the little Russian I can…we have a good time.
At sunset I would roll into a cafe, more like a truck stop, and hang out with these amazing people. I was also given a place to sleep.
Now it’s the morning of June 15th. Just after a few hours of riding on a barely two lane country road it’s break time. This sun and heat is killing me or it’s because of all the time off I had in Kazakhstan…or maybe…I’m close to hitting the end of my tour. I think a lot are playing a part here. I’m not really sure what was going through my head around these days but I’m pretty sure it all stemmed from ending my wedding engagement that previous January and finalizing the break up between he and I in April after the Kyrgyzstan blizzard. There were times I would have tears rolling down my face while riding…hell, 2 years later I still had to hold back a few tears walking the streets here in Shanghai. When I tell people I burned my life to the ground and I’m currently rebuilding, I really mean it. There are no regrets, but…well, on with the story.
And then I stop for some naan…of course…my tour was all about photography, sitting on the side of the road thinking about life, and eating.
I load up on supplies in this town as I’m almost on the small road that skirts along the northern edge of the Nurata mountains.
I’m drinking more water than I can carry. I can’t keep up. Through these villages I see everyone carrying either empty buckets or buckets of water. Is it so hot that everyone walks around with a bucket of water to carry? Am I absolutely insane for being out here right now. I’m getting concerned about water so I pull into a village and look for water. Someone points me down a village road and I come home to a well, without a cover.
Peering down, it’s about a meter drop in and I’m trying to figure out how to do this. An older woman approaches me and I ask her how to get the water. She gives me a slight smile and moves along and jumps right in the hole. Asks for my water bottles and fills them up. She smiles as she hands me each bottle. Wow…did I really just witness this woman half my height and twice my age just pull a total Teenage Mutant Ninja move…I was humored for the remainder of the day with that site.
Stopping for ice cream a couple hours later I meet this fella that can speak some English. We sit on the stoop and I buy another ice cream and talk with him for about an hour. He says he’s never seen any other foreigners along this road and it’s summer vacation for him right now. I believe the store keeper was his uncle and his family urged him out of the house to practice his English. In retrospect, he reminds me of my dear Uyghur “brother” Akbar in Korla.
As I finally see the edge of the Nurata mountains I see a watering station where a few trucks are pulling over to. A driver turns the water on in this massive concrete structure and there are 2 faucets on both sides. The men are drinking the water…so I fill up one bottle with the water to use to cook. I also use this opportunity to wash my face, hands, and feet. The salt is caking my shirt stiff.
Heading west, the sun is beginning to set and there is no one or anything in site. I eventually see these lines of trees heading off the road and into the mountains. I imagine there must be some sort of irrigation for these trees to be in the middle of the desert. As I get closer I see homes.
I eventually reach where a few dirt tracks are heading south into the mountains and the lake is to the north. There is a woman holding a baby on the left side of the road speaking to a man on the right side. There are some children around her and I see about a dozen women along a small pond doing laundry, chatting, and drinking a white liquid out of bowls.
Slowing down to see what the opportunities are here but also playing it cool, I stop to take off my sunglasses and put on my eyeglasses. The woman approaches me urgently with a smile and hands me a bowl of the white stuff. It’s cool, it tastes like milk but with maybe some sort of herbs I can’t differentiate from. I’m not a culinary expert but it’s some sort of chilled dairy drink that’s absolutely delicious. She gives me another with a smile. The women are all laughing and talking louder and hooting at us.
They ask me the basic questions and within a few minutes I’m walking along a broken gravel path to her home to stay the night.
We eat, we talk, we watch a little television in the main room. There is about a dozen of us and one younger man brings back a bag of ice cream for all of us. The food was delicious and after every meal like this all I can do is try to prevent myself from passing out. I answer their questions the best to my ability and I’m in awe of the family unit. The main woman explains to me who everyone is and how they are related. I believe her husband is a professor in Tashkent. Her small child is ill, it seems to running a fever. There were a few moments when all the eyes were on me because the infant really to a liking to me. All smiles and she even held my hand at one point.
Yes, it melted my heart a little. Going months, years, without intimate moments it’s these fleeting seconds that remind me of who I really am. At 34 I’m not really sold on the idea of motherhood for myself, but I remember Uzbekistan had a very lasting impression on me. All the women and children; it was there I realized that if I were to have children, it was going to be like these women out here. Their children never lead their sides and they all take care of each others offspring when in need. Of course all mothers love their children…but there was something different in Uzbekistan. Perhaps it’s the difficult environment, many fathers are absent because of work, and the fact these women are working throughout the day taking care of the home…and at least a couple of children.
I can’t remember her name exactly but it was something like Magdelene, but it is written in a notebook at home in the States. She lived in this large home with her father, her brother and his wife, and the children. Her mother had died a few years before as she showed me her portrait hanging in one of the rooms.
She signaled to me it was time for bed and we exited the home. The two children and she began to prepare the bed outside. Oh my goodness…you can’t believe my excitement of sleeping on this platform bed in a warm Uzbekistan desert night and staring straight up into the heavens. If you’ve ever been in the desert, or out of a city at night, you have a 360 degree horizon of star speckled black’ness. It’s one of the things in life I live for.
I sleep on the edge next to my bike, with the mother next to me, her infant and the two children. We are all on the platform together with barely 4 inches between us. This may have been one of the loveliest nights of my entire tour.
I do not see myself as special, or exceptional, or anything of that sort. My time in Tibet was when I realized how insignificant I am in this entire world and how my life is such a speck on the map. But when a woman shares her bed, with me, and her family…maybe there is something about me that sets me apart from the herds.
We wake up at sunrise with the sun blazing down on us.
Of course I don’t leave until about 11 after hanging out with them. I watch the naan being prepared and cooked. They send me off with 6 naan, water, and apricots. Of all the places I want to return to on my route, is to this woman. She wrote in my journal a note in Uzbek that I had translated later. It basically was wishing me safe travels and that she was happy to meet me and that she hopes I never forget her and the children. I’ve met many many people along the ways but there is about a dozen of older women that my heart yearns to visit again.
Today, a year and a half later after this story has taken place, in the real world I have people talk to me about feeling a connection. But a real “connection” is with someone where it crosses over language. Where you can sit next to a person, and rely on true feelings, emotions, intuitions, and your gut tells you about a person. I think my time in China and on tour has allowed me to “feel” people like I never have before. More than just a judge of character, but really “see” what they are all about within juts a few moments. When you have to move past words and language, and completely trust your instincts.
Morning of June 16th are the previous photos and head further West. Supposedly there are guest houses along the way and I debate about taking a small road north towards the lake. But after my experience with “lakes” in Kazakhstan, I decide not to because of the heat and lack of drinking water. It’s dry and hot out here.
Around 4pm I find a sign to a guesthouse and take it. It takes some asking people and a grueling 20 minutes pushing my bike up into the mountains. Let me just cut this story straight but it was a horrible rip off. So badly that I made a complaint to the company that advertises. This is the only time I’ve ever did something like this because I was furious. It probably wouldn’t have been such a big deal if the woman’s sun didn’t keep me up at night trying to talk to me and then sleeping on the same platform bed with me, texting into the night, and horrendous dog barking throughout the night. I’m embarrassed to even say how much money they took me for. Enough that would of last me for weeks in China…WEEKS. The complaint also had to do with the fact that even though I’m a western woman, I was insulted that they thought it was appropriate for a young man in his 20’s to sleep so close to me.
Anyways…it was cute place and I enjoyed watching the neighbors get apricots from their trees. One man would climb up and shake the branches while 3-4 women stood underneath catching them into a sheet.
Morning of June 17th. I do everything I can to get shade and enough water. There is only one stop, with one shop, between the guesthouse of the previous night and the next town I will stay at.
I hung out in there for a little while. A boy had escorted me out of the previous town with the one shop, on his bike. He was sweet. I told him he should go back because there was nothing out here. Most of the kids I play along with and their racing games. His bike looked like it was about to fall apart so my biggest concern was he going to far and having a problem with the bike.
I come into a town near sunset and on the edge of town is about a dozen men sitting on the east side of a bus station. One gets up and waves me over. I’m greeted with smiles and waves. He buys me a water and ice cream. Then he buys me another ice cream. After 15 minutes of shootin’ the breeze with these hooligans and watching them heckle this local woman driving a motorcycle, that kept stalling out, I’m walking back to the man man’s house.
This was dinner.
After dinner and right before the sky turns black, I snuggle onto my “kurpa” outside the house with the rest of the family. There are a few meters between me and the rest of the family but it was a very easy going and non-obtrusive homestay. It seems that these moments always appear after a horrible situation.
The next morning, June 18th, I leave after the man escorting me out to the main road. I ride out just as the sun is peeking over the horizon. Around 10 am I pass this dead dinosaur in the road. I’m reminded to never sleep in the desert without a tent. The lizard must of been 3 feet including tail and a good 4 inch girth. I’m also spotting white spiders with a bright orange back.
At 10am I arrive in Nurata and look for a place to buy water. As I’m sitting outside a shop a young girl tells me to come inside, out of the sun. I end up staying the day with the women in the back yard. The two sisters work on embroidery and the mother is making apricot preserves. We all take a nap inside a dark room around 2 to 4 and then carry on with the rest of the day.
I would stay the night with them. The sisters and I would sit outside along the main street watching traffic and passer-bys listening to my iPod. The mother at one point wanted me to stay with her, in the room with her husband. He had come home later in the day and by now he was intoxicated. The mother’s demeanor had changed from the joking jovial woman earlier to something that seemed like fear. There was some sort of exchange with the mother and daughters and the two sisters and their cousin won me for the evening.
The four of us lined up along the platform on the back porch and giggled into the night.
You know what? If you haven’t caught on…I LOVE being a woman, alone, on a bike. Yes, there are dangers I have to be cautious of. Some have had the audacity to say I’m setting myself up for some of the things that have happened to me. But through these years wandering around Asia have taught me so much what it means to be a woman…not for myself, but experiencing the lives of others. Never have a I wished to be a man…maybe I wouldn’t have had the courage to do what I’ve done.
Assey Plateau – Kazakhstan June 6 2012 (Part III) Final
I woke up sore and hungry…and not to mention thirsty. I slept okay for the most part, as there were no storms but still had a bit of panic sitting in my gut.
It’s one of those mornings where I pull myself out of my bag and climb out of the tent apprehensively…wondering what the hell am I doing with my life.
Standing outside barefoot knowing the heat is about to start pounding down, I debate of what choice to make. I use my camera lenses to attempt to see into the mountains ahead. There are no signs of a road going down the plateau and there actually seems to be something going over the range and ridges. According to the map I should NOT be doing this. I was given directions that I should be passing a home, the only home on the plateau, and was given a DVD from the cyclist to deliver. The DVD had films of previous cyclists that had done this route. This house has not been spotted yet and I’m pretty sure I’ve veered off route – again.
I plop my heavy bum down on the ground, alternating my view from my feet to the mountains. Slowly turning my head around the terrain…this is usually when I give a big exhale of air and tell myself to get my lazy self up and get my shit together. Slipping on my new sandals that I’ve already begin to tear because of walking through the broken terrain, I take a walk to the road to see what lies up ahead.
Within just a couple of yards it begins a descent and even without the bike I begin to slip in the tiny rocks on the red clay earth. It’s dry, it’s broken, and I have no idea how I’m going to make it but it’s what I should do. My gut tells me to carry on…the road must lead SOMEWHERE. Or whatever this is, it’s hard to describe it as a road at all, but rather some poor excuse for jeep tracks. I’m going to have to go slow and push the bike for the most part. Most importantly I have to get going because the summer heat is going to boil me alive.
I begin the day around 11:00 and ride for a short bit, with a bit of walking and slipping, and within 15 minutes I spot the small house. It’s leveled out terrain with some trees and flowing water around it. Lying my bike down, I deliver the disc with a smile…hoping for an invite in, at least for some water and breakfast. I haven’t had a bite to eat and I’m running low on water. He looks at me in confusion, with my horrible explanation in Russian. It’s not worth it and I continue on.
As I’m leaving his home and yard area, there is water flowing under some trees. I see some animals around and I question the cleanliness of it. It seems stagnant in areas and I pass it.
The terrain is still holding it’s level but the trees immediately disappeared and I’m surrounding by red clay and cliffs…and it’s getting HOT.
This route confirms that it’s much more difficult going down than going up. There are spots I have to get off the bike because braking doesn’t work and all it does is slide me down the road with the back wheel trying to go faster than the front, causing minor spin outs. Either I’m sliding on my bike or I’m holding onto my bike walking her down and slipping nearly the entire way down. Of course I remain calm, not a peep from my mouth, cool as a cucumber…knowing I have to do this and there is no point in throwing tantrums or cursing.
Traveling solo teaches you, and you come to realize, that outward expression of emotions is only for the benefit? of others that surround you. There is no reason to curse, or scream, or even laugh…when you area all A L O N E…AND NO ONE KNOWS WHERE YOU ARE…let alone hear a peep that comes out of your mouth. Don’t get me wrong, I still get a mad woman cackle of laughter every now and again, and of course a few tears here and there, but I see it as more of a release of emotions for stability.
I’m able to ride a whopping 2-3 kilometers up a slight incline to find myself on another type of road conditions. Things are beginning to look a bit more hopeful. I see a small abandoned house and an old sign signifying a resort or hotel. It’s obviously no longer used, or no one is home. I take a break to take a look at from where I’ve come from. There are storms clouds that are beginning to roll in and I’m so thankful as the overcast will cut down on the heat.
After years on the road and in the sun, I’ve started to become very aware of how much of my skin is exposed. You’ll probably notice through images from the beginning to the end that I begin to wear more clothes, even in hotter climates. It was in Tibet that I learned that I actually stay cooler with clothes covering my skin. I also prefer not to show much skin to locals, as a single woman. I’m of the camp where when it comes to covering, the more the better. You can’t ever go wrong with that choice.
After a brief rest looking at the past I begin to carry on to the future. What I ride into becomes glorious. I can’t believe my eyes…so much that I have to sit and stare into whats to come. A descending plateau, a lake ahead, and amazing road conditions for me to pick up great speed. Knowing that I’m going to be riding with a shit eating grin down the entire way, I take my time to have a little snack and breathe.
And a little bicycle and girl pin-up photo for you folks.
I descend fast, hard, and with a smile the entire time. It’s less than 5km then it levels out and I’ve encountered some of the worst terrain to get through…even worse than Tibet. It’s rough, it’s tough, and I even tumble a few times. I bust my bottom at least a few times from my feet slipping out from under me and the bike nearly coming down upon me.
The most fearful moment is when I’m walking the bike along the “road” that is breaking off and there is a 2 meter drop off. I debate how to walk her by as I think I’ll have more control on her right side. As I’m right handed I usually always walk the bike on the left side. So I move over to the right, very precariously, and begin to walk past the ledge. The bike slips because of the incline and before I know it the bike is on top of me with the wheels just a few cm from the edge.
Holding onto the bike I crawl out from under her and drag her on the side to get enough space to lift her back up to safety. The problem is my feet are slipping in the fine gravel and can’t find my footing. This goes on for nearly five minutes knowing that the bike CAN NOT slip off the road. With a few huffs and puffs and a heave and a ho…we are both up. Although I’m sweating much more profusely than her.
It’s the moments after these moments where I smile…sometimes just from within. It’s these treacherous and challenging moments that I can say, “look what I did…on my own”. It’s the challenges throughout this entire tour that has brought joy to me, made my heart fuller, and a reminder that I am a “warrior”. (A name Chris Alexandre would give me). Yes, I cried for a few seconds yesterday when I thought I may be lost, just 24 hours earlier…but then pull my self up and my bike to say, “Look at what I can do!!!”
It must be at least 10km of this terrain before I can begin the final descent to the lake.
Well folks, that’s it. In retrospect, this was the last great ride of my tour. The last great few days of solitude, thinking, feeling, and looking at myself and finally realizing what I’ve accomplished. There was something about this route that embedded who I’ve become and who I finally am. It was a pivotal point in my tour, my exploration, and the finalization of seeing the love for myself.
It was a moment to make peace of an ended relationship; to realize I’m strong enough to carry on alone.
It was a moment to be thankful for the people in my life that have helped make this whole thing possible.
It was a moment to let go of so much of the past and know what ever the future carries for me, I can overcome it…anything.
It took me over a year to write this entry because it carries such strong emotions, many that I still have difficulty expressing. It’s strange what a few days alone, with a bike, can do for the soul.
If you haven’t seen it, this is a short film I put together of my time out there, featuring a song from Cat Power. The music I was listening to during this ride was the Kings of Leon…I had enough albums to keep quite entertained for the few days. I would enter Uzbekistan on June 9th 2012.