30 days X 30 years @30daysx30years - Tumblr Blog

Awesome! Cyclingtips has published an article on my trip with some of my favorite shots. W I D E S C R E E N. So check it out on a monitor that doesn’t fit in your pocket. Cheers!

I’ve been wanting to turn my cycling adventure into something tangible for a while, but couldn’t quite find a book printer that would give me the complete freedom to make a what I wanted.

Then I browsed into Blurb. They offer complete lay out flexibility with a large collection of quality fonts and paper types. In their webshop you can buy other peoples’ creations, including mine. But more importantly you can easily make you own. So if you’re looking to put your adventures to paper make sure to check them out.

Here are some of my favourite pages of the ‘30 DAYS X 30 YEARS’ book!

About a year ago I embarked on one of the greatest adventures in my 30 years of living. And now Alpaca Maps have published an interview with me on it, including a cool interactive map of the trip! And yes, you can make your own free of charge... Enjoy!

With renewed strength I make it to the top of the last pass in the morning. From here on the road goes mostly downhill to Osh with temperatures rising; exactly what I need right now. Although Kyrgyzstan is beautiful my full focus is on reaching Osh, so I hardly stop for pictures, chats and children’s high fives anymore. Closed off with my earbuds in I kick away the miles to my destination.

On my final day of cycling it’s only 70 more k’s, the road is great and I’m feeling better. With the stress of time pressure slowly lifting I can’t help but celebrate early by singing along to some ancient Switchfoot albums at the top of my lungs, to great amusement of some locals.

It’s early afternoon when I finally roll into town under Osh’s giant victory arch, which seems fitting, especially after the last three days. What a relief to have made it, on my own and in time for my flight! Turning onto my hostel’s premises I’m reunited with Kineticnomads Robin and Ida as well as my old pal Andy; after making it out of the Wakhan on his own his bike broke down, and without repair options he found himself hitchhiking all the way to Osh. It’s great to see them all again, and to celebrate we go out for the first western food in weeks: beer and burgers.

As demanded by my airline I go looking for a carton box to transport my bike in, together with Andy. The hostel’s owner assures me they are easy to find, but after asking every single bicycle shop in Central Asia’s largest bazaar we still stand empty handed. So I decide to build one myself from used refrigerator packaging, and with some help of a fellow cyclist I construct a box built like a Russian tank. To prove it I proudly climb on top, as Ida snaps a pic with her phone. Receiving the shot from her, back home, I’m harshly confronted with the toll the Pamirs have taken on my emaciated body. Not bringing a mirror has its clear advantages...

Although skin and bones might make for cool stories, it’s good to put things into some perspective: I’m pretty convinced that anyone in decent shape with a healthy dose of determination and taste for raw adventure can cycle the Pamir Highway -as have hundreds of cyclists before me. And everyone will face challenges of their own along the way. I’ve been somewhat unlucky by getting properly sick twice. Being bedridden for days, unable to eat or communicate, and the complete absence of a safety net has brought me to the edge of what I can endure. And although that’s exactly what I came for in a way, the process of being stretched beyond one’s comfort zone is hardly ever pleasant. But to place yourself in a position where you are exposed to the ‘elements’ feels incredibly liberating and can redefine your playing field. Ending on the pretentious note you knew was coming, I think this adversity has given the trip a deeper dimension, for which I’m weirdly grateful.

This has truly been an unforgettable experience; an adventure worthy of bringing a decade to a close. And it makes me all the more curious to see what the next one holds.

Special thanks to my wife Maartje, bike manufacturer Snel fietsen, the incredible people I’ve met along the way, and you folks following me on this adventure and hopefully appreciating what I’ve brought back with me. See you out there!

We are capable of so much more than we could ever imagine. But we only find that capacity when pushed against the limit; the unendurable and existential threat. When we think we’re nearing our breaking point, in fact, we’re not even close.

Tommy Caldwell

After a hell of a night in no man’s land between Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan I wake up to the rain streaming down the fly unabated. Inside the tent everything’s damp with wet clothing draped from the sealing in a futile attempt to dry. You know it’s gonna be a great day when you get to put on yesterday’s cold, moist outfit again. After a breakfast shake I pack up and set off into the thick mist and drizzle to the Kyrgyz border, accompanied by the Kinetic Nomads. The muddy track is beyond terrible, as neither country feels responsible to maintain this stateless 15km stretch. But when the fog clears a bit, I find myself cycling through a postcard straight from Iceland.

The Kyrgyz border crossing also marks the boundary between artisanal bookkeeping and the digital age, with a guard behind an actual computer scanning my passport. Outside the small customs booth the rain is coming down in monsoon strength again, so we ask permission to wait it out inside. But while standing there I’m literally swept of my feet by a wave of heavy nausea. I just sort of collapse in a corner of the booth, feeling like I’m about to pass out any second. Maybe half an hour later I’m able to get back on my feet, but I know I need to get somewhere warm and dry, quickly. There is no other option than to get biking again.

The closest village, Sary Tash, is around 35k’s away. As I’ve heard of a guesthouse there, I decide to go for it in one big push, putting all my focus to the road. Survival mode really. The last 15 k’s I’m able to see the village in the distance -almost touch it- at the end of the straight asphalt line cutting through the Kyrgyz steppe. But the free roaming headwind keeps it dangling in front of me for over an hour. With my last strength I make it to the homestay, drop my bike against the wall and hobble through the front door to crash on a bunch of pillows.

Muras guesthouse is arguably the best place to fall sick in Central Asia. The sister-run homestay is the newest, cleanest place I’ve seen along the entire Pamir Highway, with as crown jewels a hot shower and indoor toilet. An oasis. The medicine I bought in the Wakhan Valley now comes in great to keep in essential nutrients to recover, but still I‘m felled for three days with zero energy and the worst ‘stomach problems’ you have never encountered.

In no way am I physically ready to get back on the bike again after my three day break, but I must hit the road to make my flight home. Some other guests kindly offer me a ride for the remaining stretch, but I don’t think I would ever forgive myself for copping out this close to the finish line. I want to end this adventure the way I feel it should: by myself, on a bike, reaching my limits.

Only 185 kilometres and two more mountain passes stand between me and holding my wife. It’s basically a real life version of the final level in Donkey Kong…

The first pass right outside town is a punch in the gut, forcing a heavily recovering body back into beastmode. But once you get back into that cadence of suffering, I’m surprised how quickly it adjusts. At the end of the second day I make it to the foot of the last big pass. A rainstorm is cooking and heavy gusts of wind in combination with the gradient make cycling nearly impossible at times. But the gnarly conditions only fuel my desperation and anger driving me up the mountain, be it tantalizingly slowly. Halfway up night has fallen, and I realize I can’t make it all the way today. So I squat a half open shed by the side of the road to set up my tent inside.

It must be around two or three at night when an old Russian truck pulls over right outside my bivouac and lets its ear deafening engine run no-load to cool down from the strenuous climb. Wide awake, I hear the intoxicated driver stumbling and spluttering around the property. Thankfully he doesn’t spot my tent in the shed, where I’m sitting up straight with my headlight and pocket knife handy…

We use the word suffering way too much. Every adventure has both the light and the dark, the toil and the reward. To experience that alone is to become absorbed by an activity, by a place, by its people. The wall of daily noise, the modern trappings that define our identities give way. Our mental defenses grow thin. You no longer know where you end and the world begins. We become raw. This is why we take the trip. That is what we’ve come for.

Kyle Dempster

After the little photo shoot with Roman I go on my way again, following the shoreline of mighty lake Karakul. It’s one of those mornings where you can't believe how lucky you are to be alive and cycling the open road... Although it’s already late and I feel a bit stressed to make up for the lost time, the extraordinary light and landscape has me stopping constantly to snap more pictures.

A short but vicious climb leads me out of the Karakul bowl and by the time I reach the top it’s snowing again and an icy wind persuades me to put on all the layers I have. At least the road continues to be good, so I’m making decent progress in reaching the Kyrgyz border today.

Just before my late lunch around three in the afternoon I run into a young German guy cycling back home from China. I continue to be amazed by the amount of people simultaneously on the road like this, something that had never dawned on me before going on this trip and meeting some of them.

To protect my naan with honey meal from the drift sand saturated wind, I eat in a culvert under the road. Maybe it’s because of my hasty, high pace but I’m feeling quite weak and tired. I would like to call it a day late afternoon when I approach the final climb to the border, but the dark, lifeless landscape has an unusually eerie feel to it. So I decide to keep pushing for the crossing and camp in the no man’s land in between the two countries.

The customs station is what you’d expect from a Central Asian border post: a bunch of rusty sea containers with corrugated sheet porches for offices, and stern looking chaps with Kalashnikovs documenting everything by hand in large paper books. Luckily they’re not in the mood for going through another cyclist’s (extremely) smelly socks, so I’m let through without having to unpack all my panniers. From there it isn’t far to the top of 4280m (14,042ft) Kyzyl Art pass from which I race down to find a camping spot before the pitch black rainclouds will burst. When I spot my Swedish friends’ tent at the side of the road, I decide to join their mini camping. But just as I get off the bike, the heavens open, and I make camp in the pouring rain. Everything gets soaked and covered in red mud while I’m freezing and absolutely knackered. Cooking diner under the rainfly I think this must’ve been my worst day on the road so far.

One of the great things about travelling solo is a personal openness that I experience, to changing environments and people. To look for the unexpected and engage in it; something often lost when travelling with a partner, removing that necessity to have the tide bring you places.

Being on the road by oneself for an extended period of time, is where this fundamental human desire to connect in some way, flourishes. Among its fruit are the many great encounters I’ve had with people along the way.

One of them is during diner in my hostel at Lake Karakul. Whilst outside a snowstorm is raging, the dining room is toasty and the food abundant. Here I meet Roman and Sandra, an Austrian couple living in Thailand. Roman is an avid analogue black&white photographer, and has brought an old medium format Hasselblad with him. Fascinated by this timeless piece of kit we get talking and he is kind enough to spend some of the frames he has left for this trip on me, the next morning.

Dawn is the incarnation of ‘calm after the storm’, with beautiful skies and the mountains draped in a pristine mantle of white. It must be a combination of the high altitude and low humidity that has an amazing effect on the light up here, giving extraordinary intensity to the snowy peaks and clouds. Great day for a shoot!

These pictures are taken by, and property of, the gracious Roman Jirka. Thank you for the great company!

As good as most of the road was on the side I came up, so incredibly bad is the descent. Deep washboard from side to side and big potholes make for a rocky ride. With constantly engaged brakes riding down goes almost as slow as cycling up; the road is relentless. Out of nothing short patches of asphalt will appear, disappearing as suddenly as they came, driving me to desperation if it wasn’t for the extraterrestrial views.

In the afternoon the headwind picks up again, and the closer I get to the outlandishly azure lake of Karakul, the more powerful it becomes. It’s like cycling up a mountain for hours on end whilst being sandblasted. Very efficient, if you were due for a good cardio workout and facial scrub.

Starting in Murgab I’ve been accompanied by a Chinese border fence to my right. Not too far behind it is the Sarykol mountain range that I’m checking out for a suitable summit to climb. Officially the mountains here are off limits, but there is no military surveillance from what I can tell, and plenty of breaches in the railing to approach the base. And thanks to the high snow line this time of year most peaks around 5000m look like they can be done without crampons and ice axes, which I didn’t bring.

But as the afternoon progresses the sky turns darker and the wind takes on seemingly hurricane-like strength. So instead of heading out into the mountains directly, I decide to stay the night in Karakul town on the lake’s shore, and see how the weather progresses. That proves to be the right decision, as it snows heavily throughout the night covering all slopes around in a thick layer of fresh, slippery powder. Not having the right equipment with me for these conditions, I see any summit aspirations go out the window for now. Maybe I’ll get another chance down the road…

Today’s a big day; the literal and figurative pinnacle of the trip! It’s been coming down a good part of the night and I wake up to a blanket of snow all around. At 4300m the mornings are freezing cold, so I take it easy. Toasty in my down jacket I wait for the sun to come over the mountains, warming me up and dry the tent a bit before embarking on my quest to conquer the roof of the world, Ak Baital pass.

It’s almost 11 before I drag my loaded bike out of the pit back to the road. Thanks to some extra work yesterday, it’s only a few more k’s to the foot of the climb, and the ride is remarkably easy right up to the final stretch, where the pavement ends just as it gets steep. It starts snowing again and I ride up the muddy gravel track in a blizzard, with my retina taking a heavy beating from a fierce snowflake/side wind combo.

I’ve been cycling above 3500m for the last week, so I’d say I’m pretty well acclimatized. But even then, hitting a steep section at this altitude drowns my legs in lactic acid with a galley drummer beating the inside of my skull at ram speed.

Looking at my altimeter I’m expecting some more hairpins beyond an upcoming bend in the road, but a straight up steep section quickly helps me gain the altitude I was looking for and gives me a view on the road flattening out, cutting through the slopes on both sides. Only a few more yards and I’m there: 4655m (15,272ft) above sea level. That’s about the height of Mont Blanc…on a bloody bicycle! For months I’ve been dreaming about this moment and finally on top I make an emotional roar –more of a shriek really- into the thin air. I made it!

I quickly put on every piece of clothing I’ve brought, and like a miracle the wind dies down, it stops snowing and there’s even an attempt from the sun so spread some pale rays. This means I can take my time for some pictures and call my wife, at work back home, with the emergency satellite phone I brought. Again I wish she was here to experience this moment together… But on the other hand I haven’t had to put up with the inevitable whining during the climb, other than my own. Thin silver lining?

From Murghab onward I won’t encounter much more civilization until I make it into Kyrgyzstan, so it’s time to pay a visit to the local market. The maze of rusty sea containers converted to kiosks is an abundant source of bicycle touring essentials; instant noodles, cookies, candy bars and I’m ready to kick some ass again! Not a moment too soon, as Murghab is the highest town of the entire former Sovjet union at 3650m (11,975ft), but still I’ll have to cycle up over a kilometre to cross the daunting Ak Baital pass…

The road crosses a high altitude plain, where the weather is extremely unpredictable. Sunny weather constantly interchanges with blizzards coming down in thick white fog, with as only constant the ferocious headwind. For the first time this trip I’m wearing pants, long sleeves and gloves on the bike. Thankfully I’ve caught up with my Swedish friends, the Kineticnomads again, so we can take turns drafting. After lunch they stop to collect drinking water from a stream and I continue solo. Wanting to cover at least 60k’s today I’ve got my work cut out for me in this gale. But just before the sun sinks into the mountains’ embrace I hit the mark and find a good spot to make camp. It’s a large pit at 4300m (14,108ft) altitude that offers some protection from the howling winds. Dead beat as I am, I have some noodles and tuck in, drifting off immediately to the sound of snowflakes hitting the fly.

This strange, unlikely journey from dust to dust is much more than bills and paychecks. Sometimes we need a little perspective to awaken this urgency within us. To be reminded of how short life is and how much we have to be thankful for. Death is the certainty, life is the unexpected gift.

Jon Foreman

The paved road is great compared to the undefinable mess I’ve ridden over the past week. It’s around 106k to Murghab, the second and last sizable town along the 1500km route, but from now on I will have a new enemy; fierce headwinds are the new normal, all the way to my destination in Kyrgyzstan.

My map shows a 4134m (13,563ft) mountain pass halfway, but other than the landscape transforming from grassy plains to rocky hills the climb is hardly memorable, as is the (lack of a) plaque or pile of rocks at the top. Thankfully the descent is pretty decent and can finally reach some 65km/h, which seems to be about the maximum velocity for an object with the windbreaking abilities of my fully loaded bike, dodging the many potholes.

With so little traffic I enjoy my naan-with-honey-lunch at the road side in a gorgeous valley surrounded by red rock peaks. The route continues through beautiful canyons making me feel as if cycling through the Mars rover’s photo roll, when halfway the afternoon I finally catch my first glimpse of Murghab, situated at the far end of a wide, green valley with a river snaking through the grasslands. It looks so close that at first I can’t believe this is it already; it should be at least another 25k’s or so. But the visual distance proves deceptive, and the winds in the valley converge into a wind tunnel that I’m taking head on. Beaten numb by the gale I make it to the edge of town and start the search for a place to stay.

After a good plate of rice at my hostel I take a warm bucket shower and call it a night, sharing a room with two older Spanish motor cyclists. Brilliant chaps. I know I didn’t exactly pack ultralight, but these guys haven’t even brought half the stuff I carry. “More luggage makes the bike ride uncomfortably on these roads” they explain. Tell me about it…

Half an hour cycling into the morning I pass the lake I was searching for last night. But it looks a bit…weird. I park the bike and take my water filter and bottles down to the waterside, where my suspicion is confirmed; this is a salt water lake, water my filter can’t take. Not great, as I only have about one bottle left after cycling all day yesterday, cooking diner and making breakfast.

Looking at my maps there are no streams coming up anytime soon, and the closest lake from here appears to be salt as well. With the power of the sun in this high altitude dustbowl sucking the sweat right out of you, I’m in a bit of a pickle… I can either play it safe and cycle back uphill for half a day where I know I can find fresh water, or take a gamble and try to get to the M41 main road as quickly as I can, where I might be able to stop a truck and ask for water. It shouldn’t be too far to the junction anymore, but the track is the smoothest loose sand making cycling more like pedalo.

Having wasted so many days already being sick I decide not to waste any more by going back, and choose the latter. Angry at my own rookie lack of anticipation I kick it up a notch and ration my food intake to save my body the fluids needed for digestion. Midday is approaching so the heat is getting pretty intense and inescapable in the shadeless landscape. I’m now almost out of water and not making as much progress as I should. This could prove a costly mistake…

Suddenly I spot a growing cloud of dust appearing in the distance. I barricade the track with my bike and signal the vehicle to stop. It turns out to be a jeep with a Polish couple and a local driver who graciously share one of their water bottles with me. Saved. Now that I can eat again as well I have the extra power I need to make it to the M41 junction fast.

Out of nothing, like a mirage, I look out over the most perfect road snaking through the Moon-like landscape. Tarmac! It’s another 30k to the closest village, but back on the heavenly surface I’m flying, and before I know it I make it back to civilization.

Alichur is literally the dustiest town I’ve ever seen, but with two or three small kiosks and homestays it almost has a metropolitan feel to it. After a welcome warm bucket shower my host tells me he used to be a hunting guide. He would take trophy hunters from all over the world into the mountains to shoot massive Marco Polo sheep at $25,000 a pop; an astronomical amount in this place. With the rapid decline of the species and subsequent protection laws he now has this guest house and makes a name for himself by baking some of the best naan in the Pamirs. While I enjoy one fresh from the clay oven I can’t help a smile realizing I made it out of that dark, miserable place in the Wakhan and across the wilderness alive and well. Proud and relieved!

Not a living soul in sight. Just the rustling wind, a dusty track and sunrays beating down through the thin air. This section is pure desolation, and it’s absolutely gorgeous. The road is so bad that in many places parallel tracks have formed left and right, worn away by predecessors in 4x4’s, as even their suspended rides found the main path too rough.

After a half day long battle, traversing tracks from left to right in search of ridable surface, I make it to the foot of an 11km climb to Khargush pass at 4344m (14,252ft). The long, steady approach makes for a nice mental exercise in ‘just keep pedalling’ mode. About 9 kilometres in I take a breather right before a steep section, when a local sheepherder passes me by. I give him some candy and we talk/mime for a bit. He cannot believe I’m sleeping in a tent by my own without a fire, as he speaks of the wolves in these parts. I reckon they’ll have enough to eat in summer time –a heard of sheep for instance- before they’ll start shredding my tent and me to pieces.

At the top of the pass dusk starts setting in. I have seen a lake on the map that’s situated in a bowl, where I hope to pitch my tent in the lee. Not sure how far it is I race down the slippery sandy track thanking God for my hydraulic breaks, but after half an hour of irresponsible descending the lake is still nowhere to be seen. It’s getting dark and I need proper shelter against the fierce wind, so I turn back to a spot I just passed that looked reasonable. It’s a sandy field at the foot of a huge rock face. I find a place that has decent protection from the heavy side winds and at the same time is just outside of (previous) rock fall radius, where boulders multiple times the size of my tent clearly mark the ‘squash zone’. Sometimes you have to be pragmatic and keep just your fingers crossed…

Only those who risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go

T.S. Elliot

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