Travel Reference
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length and ride in one gear. I hoped it would be enough to get me out of sight of
the village.
With the work done, all three came out to wave goodbye and give me a push
start. Miraculously, the first couple of cranks were smooth and the bike began to
move. Twenty metres later a clunking sound was followed by the sensation of
jammed pedals. The chain had come off and become stuck. Not daring to look
back, I pulled out the chain.
'C'mon, c'mon, bloody work!' I muttered, my hands trembling. Again, I waved
at the family, this time noticing their forced smiles.
It took four stops before I was back on the road; it felt like greeting an old friend.
I continued pedalling frantically, stopping again and again until the village was a
blemish on the horizon. There I sat on the roadside fiddling with the chain. It didn't
matter to me whether it was fixed properly or not. The priority was to keep mov-
ing. The longer I sat there, the more the ghosts gathered around, taunting. When I
was riding, every little pothole avoided, every tree passed, was a victory.
For hours I rode, stopping frequently. I heard the clunks beneath the bike but
ignored them until the pedals would no longer turn. Eventually, I tinkered with the
chain to find a reasonable fit. The road became a series of enormous holes and dry,
cracking ridges.
As the sky began to glow peach in the evening light, the heat and struggle of
the day faded. Although progress was much slower with one gear, I had probably
covered around ninety kilometres. I would need to cover an average of 100 a day to
meet Chris, but I was quietly pleased with my progress and happy to call it a day.
For the first time since the village ten hours earlier, I had time to take in the view.
The trees had almost thinned out altogether, leaving a bare and empty landscape.
With the sun sinking below the clear black edge of the earth, my sweat cooled. The
wind had abruptly stopped, leaving me sharply aware of the calm. A flock of small
birds darted across the sky not far ahead. Silhouetted against the molten colours of
sunset they appeared like pepper sprinkling down from the heavens.
I recalled advice from a friend just before leaving Omsk: 'In your contempla-
tion, listen to what whispers from across the wild, open steppe, and not from what
man has done to damage it. Perhaps this will help in your grieving for Bruce.' It
suddenly struck me that I had not even thought about him all day.
By the time I found a patch of trees, the glow had all but vanished. The few
wispy bands of cloud looked like cobwebs. After falling up to my waist into a wa-
