Off-grid: a tandem adventure from Tokyo to Zurich, along the Silk Road
Fifteen months, 12,250 kilometres, taking in gruelling mountain passes and stretches of desert. A first-hand account of a journey for two that restores the balance between body, mind and the couple. An extreme test of one’s limits and a chance to let go of the need to be in control.
Ak-Baital, Murghab, Alichur. Like so many other travellers before me, I am drawn to the names of certain places. These distinctive words – and the numbers that go with them: nine gruelling mountain passes, the highest of which stands at a breathtaking 4,655 metres – form part of the Pamir Highway between Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan, running along one of the ancient Silk Roads. From the moment we decided to cycle from Tokyo to Zurich on a tandem, those names and numbers have followed us like storm clouds – electrifying and menacing. We had no idea it would take 15 months and around 12,250 kilometres to reach our destination. And to think I could barely ride a bike.
A few years earlier, during a very long journey, I had savoured the freedom of being away from everyday life. It’s exhilarating to have no obligations, no commitments and no one depending on you. I felt light, unburdened, free to simply exist in that moment. I told my partner, Hugo, that I wanted to take a sabbatical to travel. He was interested too, but he always needs a goal: the idea of wandering aimlessly didn’t appeal to him; he needed a deeper motivation and decided that cycling long distances could be just that. As for me, given that whenever I cycle I end up crashing into anything in my path – whether it’s moving or stationary – I had my doubts. But then we thought of the tandem, a rather curious-looking contraption, but above all an excellent way of balancing the differing abilities of two people who want to cycle together. During the three years it took to organise everything, the trip was a looming presence not only in our thoughts and minds, but also in our plans. We’d dreamt of cycling eastwards, as most European cyclists do – those whose blogs and reports we’d read. However, that would have meant arriving in Central Asia well into autumn, whereas we knew that the ideal season for crossing the region is summer. So we decided to cycle from east to west.
The start, at the height of the stifling Japanese heat, nearly destroyed us, both individually and as a couple. Our feelings couldn’t have been more different. I felt shamefully out of shape; I was afraid I’d burst, that I’d push myself beyond my limits. To cope with my anxiety, I kept eating. Whilst I was getting bigger and heavier before Hugo’s eyes, he was gradually fading from mine, trying to save money and energy, and shouldering the full weight of our load (and of me). I wanted to stop anywhere to eat anything; he, exhausted and exasperated, just wanted to keep cycling. For the first time in our nine-year relationship, we couldn’t communicate. Whatever either of us said seemed to fall on deaf ears – or not even reach its destination. Hugo did nothing but grumble. We were hot, tired, grumpy, yet inevitably stuck together. Each of us was frustrated and angry with the other, yet unable to distance ourselves. It took a nasty fall from an elevated cycle path to bring us round to our senses. We recalibrated everything as we carried on: the route, our expectations, our relationship and our bodies.
By the time we arrived in Central Asia a year later – having zigzagged between Japan, South Korea, China and much of South-East Asia, then back to China and Kazakhstan – we were like a well-oiled machine. We’d come to know ourselves as cycle tourists and felt confident and sure of our abilities. I was fitter and more resilient; Hugo had put on a few kilos and learnt to take it easy. Whatever the situation, we managed to find a compromise. The pace of the journey suited us, as did the simplicity of our days. We’d decided not to aim for total self-sufficiency, as many cyclists do, camping and cooking their own meals. We realised that we enjoyed stopping to eat and sleep in random places – places we would never have visited had it not been for our bodies reaching their limits. Our stops for the night, in fact, were dictated by how tired our legs were, the length of our lunch breaks and the time we woke up.
Of course, we didn’t spend 15 months in a state of total carefree bliss, far removed from any worries. Some days were inevitably taken up with logistical matters relating to routes, visas, bike maintenance and our health. There were a few family dramas to deal with from afar and some work commitments. I’d decided to take on a few small jobs, even whilst on the trip, and this took time away from cycling. I remember a stormy night spent editing photos in our tent, pitched behind a lorry stopover in Kazakhstan. There were, however, moments when this way of travelling lived up to its promise of a more authentic life. There were weeks when our decisions boiled down to choosing the food least likely to cause us digestive problems, the least dilapidated accommodation, or which of our two sets of civilian clothes to wear in the evening. Sometimes there was no decision to be made, simply because we had no choice.
