Part 4 of the Incredible Journey: Biking to Pakistan (Almost)

On our second day in Tashkurgan, Mag, Flo, and I decide to rent bikes from the hostel and cycle along the Karakoram Highway to the China-Pakistan border at the Khunjerab Pass (Chinese: Hongqilafu Shankou).

The town of Tashkurgan is at 3,000 meters (10,000 feet) above sea level. The Khunjerab Pass is at 4,600 meters (15,400 feet).

However, Mag got food poisoning last night and isn’t able to join us. Flo and I eat a light breakfast a la carte at a fancy Chinese buffet and go to get two bikes out from under the stairs at the hostel. The spot is crammed with expensive-looking fancy bikes of other tourists who are cycling along the Silk Road and have stopped in Tashkurgan for the night. We find the bikes being rented out by the hostel owners and adjust the seats to our respective heights. By 8:30 am, we were on our way. My right pedal is broken (it was actually just a small metal rod rather than a pedal…) and the gear shifter is completely shot. I consider going back in the hostel and demanding a discount, but decide another delay isn’t worth it.

The air was cool with a comfortable breeze as we start pedaling down the shoulder of the highway. “Born to be Wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiild!” I sing out off-key as we leave the hostel behind us, pumped with excitement for a day of biking.

We pass the first sign, a blue sign with white Chinese characters, which tells us that the Khunjerab Pass is 115 km (72 miles) away. We would also be making a 1,600 meter (5,000 feet) elevation gain. “We can totally make that!”, I tell myself. On a broken bike with a single gear? No problem. “We’ll bike there, which will take maybe 4-6 hours, but coming back will be super easy because it will be all downhill,” I optimistically think to myself.

We pedal and pedal, going uphill gradually, coasting downhill at some points, and it’s not so bad. Each truck, car, tractor, and motorbike that passes us honks their horn, letting us know they’re passing, they’re watching out for us, and they’re conscious of keeping us safe. We bike for an hour and take a break to drink some water and take pictures. The view is phenomenal. Huge snow-capped mountains and desert surrounds us on all sides. The Ice Mountain Father (Muztagh Ata), enveloped in a huge white glacier, is standing huge, tall, and formidable. He will stay in view behind us the whole time.

We bike for another hour, passing at least 30 workers in orange jumpsuits shoveling dirt and sand off the road. We agree that it must be a pretty thankless job to spend all day in the forbidding sun pushing dirt around, yet their jobs are essential to the roads survival, I realize. Without them, the road would be covered in sand. We say hello and nihao and essalamu eleykum as we cycle past. Sometimes they respond, sometimes they just stare. We stop again briefly and I drink the Chinese version of Gatorade; and nothing has ever tasted so good in my life.

In the third hour, the sun is so foreboding on my face and my eyes are starting to hurt because the sun is so bright. So I pull out a second bandanna and cover my entire face with it, including my eyes. I can see fine through it, and it protects my eyes from the sun, wind, and sand. We keep pedaling and make it up our first big hill. We’ve gone about 30 km (19 miles) in 3 hours (not including breaks) at this point, so we stop for lunch. It’s about noon now. We sit on the side of the road and eat naan, peanuts, and strawberry cupcakes. Flo’s face is bright red with sunburn and we both put on more sunscreen and lip balm. Trucks barrel past us, heading to the China-Pakistan border. As we sit on the side of the road, our bags and bikes next to us, the sun on our backs and the wind against our faces, Flo randomly starts uncontrollably laughing.

“What? What’s so funny?” Now I start laughing too.

He shakes his head. “Sometimes when I’m really tired I just can’t help but start laughing, so I guess I’m really tired right now…”

We sit and enjoy the view, breeze, sunshine, and brief moment of rest before getting back on our bikes.

We keep biking along the side of the highway and we see a sign for a “Tourist Destination Look Out Point,” which tells us that we are 30 km from the Wakhjir Pass of the China-Afghanistan border (elevation: 5,000 meters, 16,000 feet). We look at the map and are a little confused because it doesn’t look like the Karakoram highway goes to the Afghanistan border, but we’re excited because if we can’t make it to the Pakistani border, at least we can make it to the Afghanstani border. “I’m going to be able to potentially see Afghanistan today,” I think to myself. So, getting our second wind, renewed with energy at this exciting prospect, we keep biking. The highway kilometer marker tells us we’re at 1795 km now (starting from where, I’m not sure), so we keep biking and biking and biking, each km block passing as a reminder to me at how slow we’re going: 1802, 1803, 1804…

Finally, we reach the first town we’ve seen since we’ve left Tashkurgan. A huge police station garnered with big red Chinese characters carrying the typical propaganda messages (“Listen to the commands of the Party”) sits in the center of town next to the school, where we can hear kids laughing, talking, and playing. I see a store. I’ve run out of water so I run in and buy a bottle of water, sunflower seed cakes and two popsicles (one peach, one strawberry) that haven’t been frozen. It’s run by a Chinese guy who is surprised that I can speak Chinese and said he gets a lot of foreign cyclists on this route who can’t speak any Chinese at all.

We keep biking through the heat and sun, not resting much since at this point I feel like if I stop I won’t be able to start up again. We keep pedaling and pedaling and pedaling.

We realize that we’re definitely not going to be able to make it to the Khunjerab Pass today, but we want to at least hit the 60 km (40 miles) point, which will be at kilometer marker 1825. Meaning that we will have biked 60 km from Tashkurgan and will reach the point where the sign said that we would reach Afghanistan. At km marker 1822, we are climbing a big hill, and it’s hot and windy and sunny. Although Flo has been riding ahead of me almost the whole time at this point, he stops to wait for me and I pass him. “I’m so tired,” he says and I tell him we have to keep going, only 3 km left! He passes me again and I follow his back counting to 10 over and over in my head to distract myself from the fatigue. We finally make it to the 1825 kilometer marker and each collapse on the side of the road. “I know I said I was okay before. But now I’m definitely not okay,” Flo says. We drink some water. My legs are shaking.

My ass is so sore. My hands might be forming blisters. I now understand on a whole new level why bikers wear bike shorts and wear gloves. And have bikes that actually work. Especially gears and pedals.

Flo says, “I think my ass will kill me if I get back onto this bike.”

So we walk our bikes to the bus station we can see ahead of us in the distance that offers some relief in from the sun. I eat my unfrozen popsicle: sugar water that my body welcomes with relief. I also drink some coconut milk with pulp that claims to be from Hainan, the southeasternmost province in China. I marvel how we are in one of the western most parts of the country drinking coconut milk from the island of Hainan. I decide that I really should drink coconut milk more often.

We realize then that the sign wasn’t saying, “You’ll reach Afghanistan in 30 km.” It was saying, “you’ll reach the intersection to go to Afghanistan in 30 km.” We have made it to the intersection where, if we go right, we go to Afghanistan. If we keep going straight, we go to Pakistan.

So we decide instead to hitchhike back to Tashkurgan.

And then we realize. We biked for 6 hours to get to an intersection… (LOL… FML…)

BUT we did bike 60 km (37 miles) with a 680 m (2,230 ft) [thanks, Rox!] elevation gain. And it was a blast. Wouldn’t have traded that day for anything else.

We pay 70 kuai for the next car that stops, driven by a Tajik man. He tell us he has a 5-year old daughter who goes to Chinese school in Tashkurgan. He drives us back and picks up a couple with a baby on the way. When we arrive in Tashkurgan, he drives us into a parking lot seemingly showing us off to his friends, then invites us out to dinner about 10 times and asks for my phone number. I refuse as politely as I can. Finally, we make it back to the hostel, my butt and legs so sore that I can hardly walk. I hobble into the hostel lobby and collapse on the couch across from Mag and Flo hugs Mag for dear life. We’re so tired, all we can do his laugh. We’re back, exhausted but happy. “Good memories,” Flo says. I leave to shower (best shower of my life, I swear…) and collapse into bed at 8 pm.

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