Coachlines - December 2019

12.12.19 Scott Roberts

A Liveryman on the Silk Road

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It had been a long journey so far – two months on the road. Fatigued and weary from weeks at high altitude, I reached a gap in the mountain pass and pulled in. I lifted my visor, got off my bike and stared, motionless. Mount Everest was magical, set proud against the dark blue sky. It was a special moment.

Three years previously, I signed up with Globebusters, a motorcycle adventure company, to ride from London to Beijing. I’ve always had bikes. I’ve raced them, toured with them, crashed and repaired them. But I’d never taken one on an epic adventure. I was getting older and keen to swap speed for distance. This seemed like the perfect trip.

So, on 19th April 2019, I set off from the Ace Café, London, with a group of 19 fellow bikers, set for a three-month adventure that would take us 13,200 miles through 20 countries, up to altitudes of 18,000 ft and temperature extremes of -5oC to +40oC. We knew the terrain would be harsh in places and the bureaucracy of border crossings challenging, so a year’s intense preparation seemed reasonable.

The first few weeks flew by. My 2015 BMW GS1200 Adventure was strong and comfortable and devoured the miles across Europe. Along the Adriatic Coast into Albania, across Greece and onto Istanbul, it all seemed more of a holiday than an adventure. This mood continued into Asia and onto the Silk Road, across Turkey with stunning scenery and twisty roads, through Georgia and onto Azerbaijan.

Soon we were in Baku boarding a freight ship set for Turkmenistan across the Caspian Sea. Here the holiday ceased and the adventure began. Everyone immediately fell ill with food poisoning. Not great when camping in the Karakum Desert with nothing but a makeshift communal shovel for hundreds of miles.

Onto Uzbekistan through the famous Silk Road cities: Kiva, Bukhara and Samarkand. Crossing Tajikistan, the challenges of tricky terrain and altitude were introduced.

Through the infamous Anzob Tunnel (known to the locals as the Tunnel of Death on account of it being two-way traffic, five miles long with no lighting or ventilation) we picked up the Pamir Highway and then dropped down into the Wakhan Valley, following the River Panj for 300 miles along the Afghan border. Standing on the foot pegs for eight hours a day is hard work as you negotiate a narrow dirt track with unprotected 200 ft drops into the river.

Deep into the Hindu Kush, sleeping rough in the village of Langar, I looked up into the dead of night. The sky was so black that the Milky Way beamed back at me. A thick band of stars, heightening my feeling of remoteness, not just on this planet but in space.

The next two weeks continued in a similar vein; out of the Wakhan Valley and back onto the Pamir Highway into Kyrgyzstan and onto Kazakhstan where welcome rest was waiting at Almaty.

The BMW is an easy bike to service. Oil and filter changes, new tyres, a thorough check over. I cannot believe how well the bike had coped with the 7,500 miles of abuse so far.

Recharged and now taking Diamox in preparation for the altitude ahead, we dropped back into Kyrgyzstan to Naryn, ready to climb up to 15,000 ft for the border crossing into Xinjian Province, western China. After three days of challenging bureaucracy, (it is fair to say that the Chinese would prefer prying western eyes not to be there, hardly surprising when we witnessed their treatment of the local Uyghur Muslims) we crossed through to Kashgar, a city once famous for its part in the ‘Great Game’ played out between the Russian and British Empires in the late 1800s. The old British Consulate building, now a pretty average Chinese restaurant, served as a favourite place to eat during our stay. I wonder what Lieutenant Colonel Sir Francis Younghusband would have made of it!

The next three weeks were tough. Long days in the saddle, temperatures while riding down to minus 5oC, altitude averaging around 16,000ft and no chance of any home comforts. We climbed onto the Tibetan Plateau, riding through sparse, desolate landscapes and onto Dingri, our staging point for the ride to Base Camp.

Sleep is always broken at high altitude by an overwhelming sense of drowning as you become conscious and gasp for breath. The Diamox helps, but the five litres of water a day that must be drunk with it also has the tendency to disturb ones sleep as nature calls throughout the night. Tired, weary, but incredibly excited, today was the day we would ride our bikes to Base Camp. The Gods had been kind and the weather uncharacteristically perfect. Leaning against a rock, in the silent company of my new, trusted, dependable companions, trying to put life into perspective while staring at the imposing mountain, was a day I will never forget. Ever.

From here I remember a feeling of anti-climax over the next few days as we continued across the Plateau to Lhasa. However, negotiating the new challenge of the Sichuan Highway, the 1,500-mile road built in 1954 to connect Chengdu with Lhasa, soon snapped us all out of it. The G318, one of the most dangerous roads in the world, also serves as a pilgrimage route for thousands of Buddhists. Some cycle, many walk and a few who will take years, take one step forward only to drop to their knees, pray, stand up and then take another step.

As we drop off the Plateau over the space of two days, the air becomes thick, the temperature rises and the traffic becomes dense. The trick for the final two weeks is not getting knocked off! The feeling of being an adventurer soon subsides to that of tourist again as we ride through Chengdu and Xi’an. Pandas and Terracotta Warriors give way to the engine room of China. Six hundred miles along the G108 with coal mines and power stations every 20 miles. Un-filtered filth belching out in every direction, the stench of sulphur and taste of coal dust, reminding us that the Chinese industrial power house doesn’t come without its environmental costs.

Before we know it, Datong, Huailai and Beijing. I clamber along the Great Wall, now very much in tourist mode, thinking of being reunited with my beloved Mel who has waited patiently for my return. So, the day has come where the remaining 15 of the 20 who began, mount our bikes for the last time and ride in escorted convoy through the metropolis to the Ace Café Beijing. Greeted warmly by hundreds of local bikers and enthusiastic dignitaries, our adventure has come to an end. Emotions are mixed: sadness and relief, the odd tear. We’ve done it!

As the bikes are loaded onto a lorry for Tianjin port, packed up and secured for the long boat trip back to the UK, I check my flight details to Heathrow and ponder how I might top this motorcycle adventure. Any suggestions?