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It turns out that they were all in Central Asia.

As mentioned in a previous post we met the Belgian lads in Kazakhstan.

The Belgian Lads

In Kyrgyzstan on the road from Bishkek to Osh we met 7 cyclists going East, passed Taka who was going West and had left the same day as us, and Leon who caught up with us just before Osh.

Leon soaked after an afternoon wash

Marc and Marcus. The first Irish cyclist we met

Even bikes need number plates

Taka, mentioned in a previous post painting

Geert, very tired after a long day uphill

As we entered the Fergana Valley in Uzbekistan we met 2 German cyclists. In Sommerqand the Bahordir B&B was littered with bikes including a tandem being ridden by a swiss couple. We ran into yet another 3 cyclists on the road from Sommerqand to Bukhara and finally saw another 4 cyclists while in our Lada taxi just outside of Qongorit.

The two germans going around the world

The front of Isabels Bikes

Love this guys t-shirt

Note : Since the time of writing we met our first Ameican cycle tourist Noel as he got off the ferry in Aktau. Good luck for the desert Noel.

Leon rode with us from Osh, Kyrgyzstan to Bukhara Kazakhstan and decided there to continue through the seering heat.

Here is his latest entry which is well worth the read:

After not a bad nights sleep, considering, I was packed up and on the road by six. Today, what had been crosswind, became a headwind of increasing severity as the day progressed. It took six hours on the bike to do 70kms.

It was a little frustrating and I really envied Jared and the gangs train journey – although I suspect that was fraught with its own hassels. Anyway, ‘resting’ (it was over 40c with no shade) at the side of the road, thoroughly dejected, a lorry stopped and the driver’s mate asked “You have a problem?” Rather than being the verbal precursor to unarmed combat that it would be in sunny England, the guy was actually genuinely inquiring if I needed any help. I was touched. I assured him I was okay, and this positive little episode gave the inspiration to continue riding ponderously into the wind.

There was nothing to see other than desert. A couple of times I passed a lone guy sitting at the side of the road. They made a noise and indicated for me to stop, but I wasn’t tempted. They always looked rather dodgy and I had trouble imagining where they came from and what the hell they were doing in the middle of nowhere. I mean, there was nothing as far as the eye could see. I just waved and carried on. With water and energy running low, plus no shelter in sight, I had my own problems and absolutley no desire to engage in the same conversation I’ve had a million times before:

Them: “Kouda” (where from?)
Me: “Anglia” (England)
Them: “India?” (India?)
Me: “Niet. F*****g ENGLAND!” (swearing only started after the 350,000th time)
Them: “Oh, Anglia”
Me: “Da”
Them: “Beckham, Rooney, Man United” (various names related to English football)
Me: Eyes glaze over, make my excuses and leave.

When a chaikhana eventually appeared it was like a mirage, hovering on the horizon but never getting any closer. The most frustrating thing was not knowing whether it was a chaikhana or just a derelict building that would offer no refreshment. Thankfully it was and I could get the coke (a-cola) injection I’d been craving. I then vegetated for a couple of hours waiting for the accursed sun to sink. The people at the Chaikhana were very good and honest. Whilst comfort had gone out of the window since leaving Burkara, good old Uzbek honesty was back on the cards, with the rip-off merchants staying at the tourist hot-spots.

Leaving the place I passed a police checkpoint, and as usual the police were incredibly friendly and genial. I have heard so many horror stories about the police here, but have personally found them to be nothing but gentlemen – certainly a cut above the constabularies of Kyrgyza and Kazahkstan.

Hoping for a decrease in wind as night fell, I was sorely disappointed. In fact, it got worse, and was like riding into two industrial strength fans pumping hot air in my face. After an hour or so I gave up on night riding and went to camp in the desert. This time, my broken door allowed a million mosquitos to make their home in my tent. Too hot to wear a sleeping bag, or any clothes in excess of underwear, I was deprived sleep whilst being eaten alive instead.

Source : http://www.crazyguyonabike.com/doc/page/?page_id=122728

To read more about Leons adventures see his blog Go West

This is exactly what our friend Taka does.

We first met Taka in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan where he was waiting for visas to be sorted out. Taka, a soft spoken Japanese man from a small village outside of Tokyo was heading to Uzbekistan along the same road as and left for Osh the just a few hours before we did.

Taka ready to leave

We caught up with Taka the next day in the Mountains of Kyrgyzstan. He was sitting near the top of the second 3000 meter pass painting. It turns out that he paints different scenes that he sees along his bike trip.

Taka painting in Kyrgyzstan

We caught up with Taka again in Uzbekistan where I got the opportunity to look through his paintings.

The finished painting from Kyrgyzstan

Taka said that when he returns to Japan he will hold a small exhibition of his paintings.

He has been going on cycle tours all over Asia and Europe each summer for the last 10 years and returns each year to Japan for harvest season.

We wish him luck for his future travels.

In this part of the world at least, the machinations of getting from A to B are never simple. It took 48 hours, two minibuses, a hundred mile edge of the seat ride in a Lada taxi with the bikes strapped to the roof, two trains, and a final 20km dash on the bikes to get here, all to be told we’d just missed the boat.

Such is life.

Here are a selection of photos and happenings from the marathon journey.

(I)
We left Bukara on Wednesday morning, catching a minibus to some nameless town whose name I never caught, and then transferring to another bus bound for Nukus.

The barren desert landscapes being served up only strengthened our belief that we’d been right to skip out this stretch of Uzbekistan.

In the second minibus, a modified Ford Transit, I spent 200km in a rearward-facing seat, looking back at this:

That jumble you see is three bikes tied precariously to the back seat with bungee cords and braced with my feet.

(II)
In Nukus we couldn’t find a minivan for the next stage of the journey, so we had to settle for a Lada taxi. How many bikes can you fit on a Lada? I heard a lot of Lada jokes when I was a kid, though this was not one of them.

Anyhow, here’s the answer:

I’ve never seen a driver so keen to get a fare. He was absolutely determined to pack us and our belongings into the little car, throwing our bikes around with reckless abandon and no regard for the damage being inflicted upon chains, dérailleurs and spokes.

The car was rust-speckled and of evident vintage. The front seatbelts were tired around the handbrake. Whether this was for neatness or to keep it in place, I couldn’t be sure. The speedometer didn’t work. Just as well, since the driver didn’t seem to give much regard to such trifling matters as speed limits. Perhaps to reassure Jared and myself or make us feel more at home, he spent much of the trip on the left side of the road, only swerving back to avoid oncoming traffic.

We coasted over potholed roads with a suspension seemingly made from used slinky springs. The uneven road surface, if nothing else, kept us a a semi-rational speed. I spent the entire journey with my eye glued to the road. I felt that at least one of the car’s occupants ought to be doing so, having lost confidence in the driver when he began counting the money Jared had given him while driving through the city.

(III)
Our train wasn’t due to depart from Kongrad until the following morning, so we had to camp outside the town. Finding a campsite is difficult enough in daylight, even more so in the dark, and we ended up next to a patch of mosquito-infested swampland. We threw our tents up in mere minutes, but it wasn’t enough to avoid being eaten alive by the little buggers. They even got into Katie’s and Jared’s tents. The next hour was interspersed with the sight of headlamp beams panning around tents and the occasional swatting sound that marked a successful kill.

(IV)

The train from Kungrad to Beinau was hot and crowded. We managed to grab some half-decent seats, and even snagged a bunk which we were able to use on a rotational basis.

Our bikes were crammed into a crawlspace between the carriages. I winced a little at the continued pummling being inflicted upon them over the course of the journey.

A constant stream of vendors roamed through the carriages, peddling their wares. There were so many hawkers, sellers, and money changers that it seemed as though only half the people on the train were actually passengers. Jared made a video of the action, which you can see elsewhere on the website soon.

(V)
We arrived in Beinau late Thursday evening, but had to wait several hours for the night train to Aktau. We grabbed a bite to eat in a nearby cafe, and settled . A dust storm was blowing through the town, and we sheltered from the billowing dust as best we could.

(VI)

After all that traveling, we finally made it to Aktau on Friday morning, over 48 hours after leaving Bukara. We were somewhat startled to learn that the train station was over 20km from the city and port.

The last 20km by bike was slowed by headwinds and, in my case, a not-so-slowly deflating tyre which needed to be pumped several times along the way. Some days you just ought to stay in bed.

We arrived at the port only to be told that there was a ferry, but that it was preparing to leave. Even if we had been in possession of our Azeri visas, which we weren’t, we wouldn’t have been allowed to enter. There simply wouldn’t have been time to grab tickets, clear customs, and roll up the gangway.

With no actual schedule of posted sailings, it was always going to be a stab in the dark. Still, knowing we’d missed the ferry by such a close margin was a little disheartening, especially after doing everything possible to get to Aktau in record time.

As you know since then we have cycled through Kyrgyzstan and into Uzbekistan through some of the most amazing scenery and ancient cities that Central Asia has to offer.

Unfortunately the timing of entering Uzbekistan meant that we were in the country at the worst time in summer with temperatures soaring well over 40 degrees Celsius.

After cycling to the city of Bukhara through the hottest weather yet a “team meeting” was called and we discussed what we want from this section of our trip.

Despite the popular notion that the 3 of us are either masochistic or slightly insane a decision was made to use other means transport for the 600km of desert before the city of Nukus. Yes, we could cycle this by getting up at 4am every morning, sleeping during the afternoon and cycling at night, but it seemed illogical to waste our limited travel time and finances on more desert after doing just that in China.

From Nukus/Qongorit we took the train to Aktau as there are little to no roads or villages through and yes, it’s more extremely hot and boring desert.

Presently that puts us in Aktau, Kazakhstan where we are currently waiting for a ferry to Baku, Azerbaijan. From here we will be heading northwest to Georgia. There is currently talk of dropping down into Armenia for a few days before going back into Georgia to cross the border of Turkey. We plan to head through central turkey to the Mediterranean Sea and the city of Izmir.

For a visual view of since entering Central Asia check out this map.

As for Europe…stay tuned