Reflections from the Silk Road

The Silk Road Mountain race is a 1900km race that traces an annually-changing path through the wild mountains of Kyrgzystan.  Infamous for it's unpredictable weather, long hike-a-bikes, river crossings it rewards the rider with a rare solitude, jaw dropping scenery, and a chance to journey inward.  Whilst the front pack finish with single-digit hours of sleep in under week, the rest of the pack spread out and face their own battle - against their own self-belief, inner voices, and questionable motivations - to finish within the 2 week cut off.  The real prize is to finish with purpose, to know that you were there for a reason all along.

Kyrgyzstan had been a place that danced mystically in my daydreams for years.  I knew that one day I would go and ride my bike there, and the opportunity finally presented itself in an unexpected way my friend when Neza sent a message inviting me to enter Silk Road Mountain Race…as a pair”.  Intimidated by the world of ultra-racing, and by the reputation of this race in particular, my response was a hard no.  As we talked, the hard no softened around it’s edges, and slowly evolved into a HELL YES.   We realised that what we sought from the experience was nothing to do with riding fast, or crossing the finish line.  We both wanted to reconnect with the spirit of adventure and personal challenge that led us into the world of bikepacking, that brought us together as friends, and had planted the seeds of the womens bikepacking communities we’d built with Sisters in the Wild.

My journey in Kyrgystan was a journey of two halves.  The first, a chance to tour at a luxurious pace, stopping whenever opportunities for tea and soup with local families arose, and spending long lazy afternoons in our tents whilst waiting out afternoon storms.  With fellow racers, Jade and Cat, we prioritised soaking up experiences, aclimitising to the altitude that the race would throw at usand learning about the tempremantal mountain weather patterns.  We stayed off grid for days, and I was thankful for the battery life on the Karoo that kept us moving through remote paths and trails.

The second half was a chance for Neza and me to cast ourselves into this new role of “ultra-racer”.  Living on opposite sides of the continent meant that pushing off from the start line was only our second ride together since signing up.  But push off we did, along side 180 riders, into the dusty dawn of the Bishkek suburbs, the pack quickly dispersing as we took encountered the first challenge of the route - the 3800m Kegeti pass, coated in a thick fog, loomed dark red on the Karoo CLIMBER view.

From here, the race pack would form three setions.  The front pack, riding through all weathers and hours to battle to the front.  The healthy middle, experienced racers aiming for a respectable finish time, and the back of the pack - battling against checkpoint cut off time’s and the unknowns of their capabilities.  We settle firmly in to the latter, tackling early mechanicals and taking a while to find our rhythm as a pair as we worked out how to align our different strengths and weaknesses.  It was day 4, pushing out together from checkpoint one on the shores of Son Kul Lake with the morning sun on our backs that everything felt like it had clicked into place.

Our best day of riding turned out to be our last, as Neza was forced to scratch thanks to one of the notorious Kyrgyz illnesses that throw an additional hurdle into the already challenging race.  This race for me had always been about friendship and sharing a challenge, so to continue as a solo rider was an entirely different propspect. I decided to continue, one day at a time, one checkpoint at a time, with no expectations.  I had nothing to lose and a desire to soak up as much of Kyrgyzstan as possible.  For next week, I kept moving, finding my new goal to be beating the “snail” - the mythical creature who sets the pace at the back of the race for completing the route within the cut off time.  I’d fall asleep ahead of it, and wake early to race to catch it up.  I encountered other riders rarely, crawled up to mountain passes at dawn, and felt insignificant beneath the huge skies and the power they held to unleash wild weather at whim.

My Silk Road Mountain Race lasted, 1400km, 11 days and 3 checkpoints.  Why did I finally scratch? I could blame it on my own bout of Kyrgyz-belly that had me walking most of the last day to the penultimate checkpoint. But the truth is that I'd met the edges of my comfort zone, given my fears a good prod, and decided I was happy with where they sat. My body could probably have done more, but my brain was exhausted. 

I spent the last few days in Kyrgystan looking up at the mountains through which the finishing riders emerged. The final stage saw long hike-a-bikes, fierce weather and river crossings, and I was mostly thankful to not be out there with them. Welcoming my friends Jade Cat across the finish line,  I was in awe of all the riders who embraced discomfort and struggle and refuse to give up.  It took a while to accept that I couldn't do the same, and that actually, that was absolutely fine.