A man down, many hills up

On day two of “the shortcut” we began to suspect there might be a reason nobody seems to cycle this way.

I woke at dawn and saw the patriarch of the yurt astride his horse. I called “good morning” and he saluted me before taking off into the hills.

Soon after leaving the yurt we began a steep slog, startling mobs of horses that grazed on the roadside. In less than 3km we’d climbed 400m.

At the top of that first climb Ed announced he was turning back.

“I’d like to manage expectations regarding my cycling fitness,” he began, his background working for a large corporate thrown into sharp relief.

He explained that he didn’t think he could keep up with us and that he was concerned that this would lead to friction and ultimately bitterness, with us frustrated at his slowness and him angry that he was being forced to cycle outside of his ability.

We paid him out for his share of the food and waved goodbye, watching his slight form disappear from sight around a bend. In roughly 45km, mostly downhill, he’d rejoin the main road and with it, smooth asphalt.

We heard from him several hours later. He’d enjoyed a leisurely lunch on the roadside before catching a ride on a lorry to the top of the mountain pass.

Meanwhile, we’d dropped to a valley floor and begun another slow upward slog.

In an effort to divert my attention from the burn in my legs I listened to the New York Times’ The Daily podcast, which described the drama unfolding a couple of thousand kilometres away as Saudi Arabia’s oil fields burned in the wake of mysterious drone and missile attacks.

We finally reached the crest of the hill where we stopped to eat the last of our bread with carrot and cheese.

Occasionally a car would pass us, rattling over the deep ruts.

It was immensely hot and we were soaked through with sweat.

At the base of another valley a lone house sat surrounded by beehives, and a river trickled into a manmade pool where we shed our clothes for a bath.

The water was cold and slime rose from the streambed when we clambered in.

A dog watched silently from the road.

Another series of climbs and a long descent brought us to a small village where we watched a truck squeeze along the narrow road, its cargo of hay peeling off on passing trees as two men sprawled languidly on the top of the stack.

Craving bread, we asked several households if they had any “nan” and one young boy ran inside to fetch us a plate of days-old crusts that we picked at politely before moving on.

Desperate for a campsite with a water source, we continued until we found a flat paddock next to the river.

Before we’d finished pitching our tents we found ourselves surrounded by goats and their shepherds who were mystified by the appearance of two strange people in their grazing patch.

One made the request of Jack we’d come to expect: “Any cigarettes?”

We remembered the packet we’d reserved for bribing corrupt officials and Jack retrieved it. I can’t imagine when a half-crushed packet of obscurely branded Uzbek cigarettes has been better received.

Three men very pleased with their cigarettes. PHOTO: JACK EWING

A man on horseback holding a vodka bottle aloft beckoned to Jack.

Jack with new friends. PHOTO: ISOBEL EWING

For a vessel they were using the top of a coke bottle sawn off with the lid still on, which provided quite a lot more capacity than a regular shot glass.

Jack asked if his sister could also have a jumbo vodka shot and the shepherds acquiesced, perhaps because Jack had been the bearer of cigarettes.

They poured me one only slightly smaller than Jack’s and I knocked it back, lowering the coke bottle cup to a row of startled male expressions.

We were left alone to tipsily cook dinner, the peaceful scene marred only by the shrieking of a sheep dragged away from the herd by its hind leg.