Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
We filled up our water bottles and food bags and were given some vague dir-
ections to get us to the border. When we set off, the kids set off with us. There
was a mad scramble as my gang struggled into position behind the bike to help
push me along. The only problem was that they didn't push straight. I had several
near misses as a result of over-enthusiastic, sideways shoves from one or other of
my helpers. What's more, after the first 100 metres or so, the kids who were still
hanging on started to tire. It seemed that they weren't willing to let go! Before long,
I felt myself dragging a chain of little Mongolians, despairing at the thought that
they'd stay clenched to my panniers, unwilling to give up their new toy until I'd
towed them all the way to China!
We pedalled along the dusty road and soon found ourselves in the familiar posi-
tion of sitting at intersections, deciding which direction to take. We chose to follow
a route that would take us along the railway line, even though this meant taking the
less established track, and soon found ourselves riding on narrow wheel ruts that
were becoming increasingly sandy.
A fat man in a tight T-shirt jumped the fence near his
ger
and scrambled across
the train line to greet us. He wanted to invite us back for tea and horse milk but
we decided that we really should press on. We'd been in the desert for almost three
weeks, and with only 120 kilometres to go until the border, we were itching to
move right along.
I smiled politely, Tim declined, then I got in with a quick question: 'Which way
to China, please?'
By mid-morning the road was deteriorating and by lunch, after many frustrating
falls, we had been reduced to pushing the bikes through deep sand. We must have
hit the deck a dozen times each in less than an hour. During this time, I'd noticed
an interesting comparison. Tim liked to swear loudly at his bike when it flipped
him into the dust, whereas I preferred to kick savagely at mine.
We pushed on for an hour, still following the rails, until it became obvious that
the track we had chosen saw very little traffic.
'Doesn't anyone go to bloody China around here?' Tim cursed. 'If this track
doesn't improve, then we're going to be walking the next hundred kays to the damn
border. And if we have to walk, anyway, I reckon I could go four times as bloody
fast without having to lug this useless bike along, too.'
We kept on slugging away; the road got worse. Tim stopped at a point where
the track petered out in a vast sandy creekbed. He looked hot, sweaty and pissed
