Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
We followed the Lena before turning east along the tributary Niya. After climb-
ing for several hours the road made its first descent for the day. I clicked my gears
down a fraction and felt the rush of air cool my sweat. We had made a late start and
the sun was already low, tinting the forested spurs a soft gold. These spurs dropped
off from a plateau into the gorge where the Niya flowed, hidden from sight. The
thought of icy, crystal-clear water was reassuring.
As I switched my attention back to the road, I faced a different reality. Travel-
ling at full speed, I had verged off into deep gravel and was fast hurtling out of
control. The handlebars rattled violently as I struggled to correct my direction.
The next sensation was that of my bum scraping along fifteen metres of gravel
with my elbows digging in like brakes. Somewhere behind lay the corpse of my
bike. When I rushed back to examine it, I saw that the gear and brake cables had
been ripped clear off, and the handlebars were severely bent. I could fix the handle-
bars but Chris, who was ahead of me, had the only spare parts for repairing the
cables. I would have to go on without gears or brakes.
Half an hour later, the back wheel began to swerve. It was a puncture. When
I removed the wheel, I managed to rip the grain off the axle bolt, which meant I
couldn't replace it securely. Three tubes deflated as quickly as I pumped them up;
and I tried desperately to improvise for the damaged bolt. A shadow crept over the
road and with it came a cloud of mosquitoes.
An hour later one of the tubes, fixed with Russian adhesive, finally remained
firm. Relieved, I sat down only to feel the seat give way and my bum come to rest
on the narrow steel frame. The nylon meshing of the seat had ripped. I looked down
to see blood from my grazed buttocks dripping onto the chain. There was no time
to stop though - the mosquitoes were still upon me.
Twenty metres later my drink bottle rattled free and fractured, leaving a wet
patch on the road. Not long after that I had to stop to fix the broken mudguard that
was rubbing against the back wheel.
Was my bike ending its life?
Thankfully, Chris came back to see what the hold-up was. No sooner had I
stopped to tell him the story than a car came to a halt beside us.
'Hello! We are great Russian people. We live in the village of Zvyozdni, and we
would like to invite you to our home for the night. We really are good people, so
don't worry.' I turned to see a middle-aged couple grinning from the window of
their Lada. Chris took their address.
