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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thief in every waiting car and in every unlit street (most streets in Russia are unlit).With the help of Al`s determined and optimistic view of humanity, after a couple of days I began to trust and smile at strangers again, even as I prayed through gritted teeth for those who had deemed themselves our enemies.

Just a few nights later came a far greater tragedy - fire. We were being kindly put up in a single room cottage by a lovely couple who were delighted and enthusiastic about their brand new roadside cafe?. That night they treated us to tasty meal on the house, which we ate with them around the table, along with their helper, a friendly but quiet middle aged man from Uzbekistan. Six hours later, at 3am, I was awoken by the sound of screams. Looking out of the window, I beheld a sight which is now forever imprinted on my memory. Half of the beautiful new cafe was consumed in roaring flames, ripping through wood and spraying shouts of smoke into the night sky. Al and I ran outside to find the owners standing wailing on the road. The husband had barely escaped with his life, his clothes in shreds. Nightmarishly, the man from Uzbekistan was still inside. Al bravely considered running into the ferocious flames, but at that very moment a huge gas explosion ripped through what remained of the burning shell, destroying any hope of rescue.

The next morning, having given the police statements for the second time in a week, we climbed sorrowfully back onto our bikes. It felt wrong to pedal onwards, leaving the desperate grieving behind us. Every pedal took us further away. Our quest for adventure and our race against the visas was suddenly void of meaning.

We pushed east, towards the coast, faster than ever. Much of the time our road ran alongside the romantic Trans-Siberian railway, its huge 100 carriage freight trains clattering past us, tooting their whistles merrily. And then finally, suddenly, we were breaching our last barrier - a swirling ...