Home » Russia » Some days in the life of a Siberian Cyclist (5000 km through a Siberian winter)

Awakening an hour before dawn to the sound of a digital alarm clock located in the layer between my 2 wooly hats, I remember where I am. A thousand kilometers from the nearest city, and (besides my fellow Siberian cyclist, Al) probably over 50 km from the nearest human being. Our tent sits in an icicle shrouded forest, half way across a vast glacial valley which stretches and winds its way westwards to the plains of Yakutia.

Some days in the life of a Siberian Cyclist (5000 km through a Siberian winter)

Rob Lilwall
2007-12-01 14:29:16

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through thick and thin. What follows is a blur of rising before dawn in order to fight our way through blinding blizzards, along icy roads, across forested valleys, and then on and on into the cold nights before we could finally snatch a few hours of desperate sleep on a warm cafe floor.

Besides the cold and fatigue, feelings of guilt also started to get me down, as Al, three years the fitter than me (he has just traversed Europe, Africa and all the Americas on a bike) was able to go at a much faster pace and was continually forced to wait for me to catch up. By carrying some of my gear, he was able to help me to go faster, and we tried desperately to be positive about the situation.

At one stage during the exertion, I collapsed feverishly into a free hostel bed to sleep for 14 hours. Any notions that I would have been among Stalin's survivors shattered - I too would have fallen if I'd been sent to work in the Gulags. A day later we were back on the bikes, an even higher daily km average now required.

After many days of relentless effort, things began to look more optimistic. We had covered a lot of distance southwards, and were finally out of the mountains and heading back east to the coast. However... at just this point when we thought we were through the most difficult part??two unfortunate events arose before us, one of them deeply tragic.

The first took the form of a white car with a fake Nevada number plate and only one front headlight. It stood obstinately blocking the road one night as we approached a town and the three young men who met us were drunk, but hardly frightening. It was only when they showed us their gun that their demand for money suddenly became serious. We felt we had been robbed by amateur hoodlums as we stomped angrily into the town half an hour (they had relieved me of the contents of my wallet).

Even such a mild experience was enough to poison my imagination. Suddenly I saw a potential ...