The Pan-Eurasian Bike Trip

We have ridden 5,000 miles across Russia and been caught in torrential rain storms, changed sixty flat tires, and repaired broken bicycle racks seven times. My riding partner Ellery's ability to fix small bike problems on the road with few tools and a lot creativity continually amazes me. But oftentimes, a keen knowledge of rudimentary bicycle mechanics cannot solve the most problematic moments we encounter here.

We travel light carrying just four waterproof panniers, small bags which strap onto racks on the front and back of our bicycles. We have embraced nomadhood; for over eight months, these bags will contain our only possessions. I carry just the clothes I need to survive in extremely cold or wet situations. In bad weather, I can just pull off the road, set up my tent, and crawl into my warm down sleeping bag. The feeling is liberating.

In the past months, I've found that self-sufficiency often does not mean being ready for anything, but having many things you rarely use and less things that you want. I travel with just two pairs of underwear and one pair of pants to wear when I am not cycling. But I also carry a headlamp and six rechargeable batteries. If my headlamp loses power in an emergency, I have another set of batteries to light it. Nomadic life forces you to adopt an stringent sense of absurd practicality; the battery to underwear ratio in my panniers is 3:1.

Preparing for this trip, Ellery and me continually asked ourselves, 'how can we make less things more valuable?' We planned to bring several cameras to document our trip, and a small computer to upload video, photos, and writing about the people and places we would encounter to a website. Russia is a country rich in culture, history, and friendly folks who have treated us with outstanding hospitality. Few people visit Russia outside of major tourist destinations, and, consequently, the people who live here remain largely misunderstood. Using the Internet to document our experiences here could give people in America valuable insights into another culture. The problem was how to harness its uses efficiently.

Suddenly, a idea arose. What if we could use our trip and the Internet to both foster cross-cultural understanding while showing how the very technologies which link us together can be environmentally friendly? We decided to attach light-weight solar panels on the back of our bicycles that could recharge the batteries in our cameras and computer. A company called GoGreen Solar provided us with small flexible solar panels at a discount.

Your access to sunlight makes solar power invaluable on a bicycle trip. While traveling in remote areas, we can always keep our cell phones charged in case of an emergency. Solar power ultimately allows us to travel in the least environmentally intrusive manner possible, riding bicycles instead of using transportation powered by gasoline, and designing a website to document our journey created by cameras powered by the sun.

I once had idyllic dreams of riding all day while charging my laptop's battery, then sitting in my tent at night, connecting to the Internet, and updating our website. Unfortunately, this fantasy has been hard to implement.

One can easily get online throughout Russia with a USB modem, a small device that plugs into your computer and picks up the Internet through cell phone signals. The gadget is affordable and easy to use. But making it work on the road is nearly impossible.

Approximately every 1,000 miles, we enter a new zone where cell phone towers operate on a different signal, and we must buy a new SIM card for our USB modem to work in the new region. SIM cards are small removable chips in cell phones which allow users to easily switch their phone number from one area code, or country, to another simply by purchasing a new chip. One must present a Russian passport to buy a SIM card here and foreigner's must show a passport and what is called a registration, a small piece of paper issued by a local branch of the Russian Federal Migration Service which monitors the movement of foreigners. Hotels register foreigners, and the paperwork is easily obtained in major cities like Moscow. Most of the country, however, ignores this formality leftover from the Soviet Union, and we often cannot find a hotel which will register us. Consequently, we can never buy new SIM cards and our USB modem is useless.

Finding the Internet on this trip is more difficult than changing flat tires or making my solar panel work in limited sunlight. In cities, I must use Internet cafes, but these can be hard to find. Russia, as a country, often seems like the perfect mix of the developed and undeveloped world. In Latin American countries for instance, few people own personal computers, and Internet cafes abound even in small towns. In a country like Russia, which, until recently, experienced years of a quickly growing economy, more people have computers and certain services like Internet cafes are less in demand.

Last week, I faced a serious emergency: the Internet cafe I found closed an hour early. Suddenly, the screen went dead as I was sending an article about the bike trip to the newspaper I write for in Maine. After an extensive search, I found another Internet center in a fancy hotel with an international calling center. International calling cards in European Russia are plentiful, but telephones are not. After sending my photos to the newspaper, I pounced on the rare opportunity to use the hotel's telephone to call my family in Maine.The cheap hotels in Russian cities we often stay in are located in old Soviet apartment buildings which were built before telephone use became widespread. These buildings often have just one telephone in an office near the entrance.

After the Soviet Union fell, the efficiency of cell phones evolved quicker than land line phones. Consequently, it is hard to find telephones today to call abroad. The one telephone in an old Soviet building is often under the charge of a babushka, an old Russian woman, who invariably works in the office. They are from another generation and cannot believe how a paper telephone card will let one call America.

"Sorry, that won't work here," they always respond when I ask if I can use the phone.

Leaving a city on my bicycle gives me the reassuring feeling that I am returning to a simpler way of living. On this trip, life seems more chaotic in civilization than outside it. This is hard for some people who haven't traveled widely to understand.

"What do you do when it rains?" is the chief question many Russians ask us about our trip.

While cycling through the Ural Mountains one day, an ominously dark mass of clouds appears on the horizon and it starts to pour. I stop to put on my rain jacket, pants, and waterproof booties over my shoes before I continue. The weather's behavior is not restricted by international border or customs. It is a natural phenomenon I can prepare for.

"Now, this is the easy part," I think  to myself.

Sometimes in life you just have to run. The impulse to move quickly does not exclusively come from a feeling of entrapment, but rather an intrinsic desire to stampede forward and glimpse what lays near the horizon.   

For humans, these desires are instinctual, realized in the moment when we rose on wobbly knees as small babes and dared to take our first steps. Life presents us with innumerable opportunities to continue moving, to continue exploring. Sometimes, however, traveling is easier said than done. So when the conditions for movement are favorable, its best to lunge forward. 

For most of August, we have slowly cycled across the flat plains of the steppe in western Siberia. Brutal headwinds here, which blow against our bicycles, have made for slow going. While resting in the city of Omsk, my riding partner Ellery checked the weather forecast and our fortunes suddenly changed.  

"It says the wind will blow behind us for several days," he exclaimed excitedly.  

Tailwinds are a cyclist's dream. They help push you forward, allowing one to ride faster. Before us 600 more miles of barren steppe remained between the cities of Omsk and Ekaterinaburg. With the wind momentarily at our back, we set out to cover the remaining distance in six days.   

Steppe is the plains area of central Asia, a desolate expanse of earth mainly covered in marshland. Only several major roads, most of which are so poorly maintained that they are almost impassable at points, cross this sparsely populated section of the earth.   Traveling westward, the steppe ends in Ekaterinaburg, a city at the base of the Ural Mountains which technically separate the Asian and European continents. From the Pacific Ocean, we have ridden almost 4,800 miles. The Urals mark the first major accomplishment of our trip; we will have ridden across Asia, the world's biggest continent by land mass.   

Gazing into the blank expanse of the steppe, the nearness of Europe seems incomprehensible. My sense of perspective is useless here. Different places I have lived during my life have trained my eyes to judge distance by things like a hill or houses, objects which appear in front of me as big or small on the horizon.   The steppe is mostly devoid of these landmarks. Here endless plains and swamp drift over the vast earth to a distant point where scant things, like groves of trees, just become blurry as they reach the indefinable boundary between the earth and sky.  

Riding over rolling hills or crossing mountains on a bicycle gives me the sensation that I am moving somewhere. On the steppe, you see where you are going long before you arrive, giving you the frustrating feeling that you should be there already.  

But for now, the wind is at our back. We can move fast. Leaving Omsk, we cover over two hundred miles in two days. We often ride forty miles or more between the few villages and roadside cafes scattered along the steppe.  

Towns here are scarce and mainly limited to lonely farming communities perched along the plains. This is the western outskirts of Siberia, a lawless and largely unpopulated land which now fans thousands of miles behind us across the vastness of northern Asia.  

A stalwart people mainly of European descent populate Siberia. The first brave souls to wander this part of the earth were fur traders. Their footsteps were followed by two surges of European migration in the late 19th century. In 1861, the abolition of serfdom in Russia set free a tide of poor land hungry peasants who moved eastwards into northern Asia. The Trans-Siberian railroad further facilitated the movement of people here; twenty years after the railroad's completion, Siberia's population doubled to 10 million.  

During the last four months, I have traveled by bicycle through this, at times, seemingly forgotten part of the world. Many people here live simple lives in log cabins, chopping their own firewood and growing crops to sustain them during long and brutally cold winters. Most towns lack paved roads and running water. Large scale development has not yet happened here.  

The word Siberia originates from a blend of the Mongolian 'Siber' which means 'pure' and the Tatar 'Sibir' which translates to 'sleeping land.'  Today, the now archaic roots of the word are perhaps more relevant than ever: they are adjectives which describe an infantile land which has yet to wake up into the modern world.  

On the third day of our sprint, the wind fiercely blows behind us harder than ever. At times, it shifts, gusting against my side, and jolting my bicycle like a kayak running through river rapids.   

By early afternoon, we cover 80 miles hardly stopping for breaks. We want to go as far as possible while the wind is with us. Riding this fast is extremely exhausting. My back aches with excruciating pain from pedaling for so long.  

When we finally arrive in a town, I throw down my bike, and collapse on my back. I lay on the ruts of tire tracks drawn into the mud and hardened by the sun. The rough earth digs into the knots in my back. The feeling of laying down, even momentarily, makes me groan with glee.  

That afternoon, the wind shifts, blowing against my side. Crosswinds often do not slow bicycle travel, they just make it more laborious. Moving forward, I examine my surroundings. Every living creature who inhabits the steppe seems victim to the fickle movement of the wind. Birds flap their wings futilely in the sky. Bushes and grass bend towards the earth like a mass of slaves bowing before an evil despot.  

By day's end, I rest near a wheat field. The gusting wind creates ripples in the wheat like a breeze moving over an ocean inlet.   

In the distance, I spot a small village. My aching muscles remind me that the first settlers who originally founded the towns here arrived on horses. They endured bitterly cold winters isolated far from European cities to forge a new life. In the 21st century, when we leave our homes to explore what mysteries lay near the horizon, we speed along in cars, and stop at highway gas stations to buy snacks. The knots in my back force me to appreciate how so much of the world we live in is built upon the suffering of previous people centuries ago.  

The wind remains behind us for two more days. By the fifth day of our push, we are extremely exhausted. In the past month, we have cycled over 2,000 miles. Just 135 miles from Ekaterinaburg, early in the day, we pass a roadside hotel. The proximity of comfy beds lures us to rest, and we decide to cover the remaining distance tomorrow.   

My body is weak and I am delirious with fatigue. I crash into bed like a bowling ball smacking a row of pins. Sleep overtakes me. I am not prone to nightmares, but today I dream that I am cycling alone across the vast steppe. A distant pack of mangy wolves begin chasing me. I can smell their rancid breath as they pant heavily behind me closing in for the kill. I pedal faster and faster to get ahead. Suddenly my foot slips and I crash upon the pavement. Time slows down. The staccato noise of their claws hitting the asphalt as they halt and turn around to pounce on me reverberates in my ear drums. I hop to my feet and race forward, escaping, their jaws snapping behind me.    

We set out at dawn. The wind shifts and blows against us. My muscles ache. I focus solely on turning the pedals and disappear somewhere deep inside myself where I vaguely sense the wind blowing on my cheeks and the bicycle slowly moving forward. By late afternoon, we begin passing European looking villages with small churches in the center. Adrenaline pumps. I pedal faster, not wanting to stop now.

n Ekaterinaburg, a group of Russian cyclists and representatives from the U.S. Consulate here greet us. We rest in the city for four days, our longest break in two months.   

Twenty miles outside of Ekaterinaburg, a simple stone monument, made of a vertical segment of granite separating two pieces of marble, stands on a hill by the roadside.   

Russian letters on each side of the marble spell the following words: Azea, Evropa. Asia, Europe.  

Several Russian cyclists lead us out of Ekaterinaburg. We reach the monument, and, with just a tinge of nostalgia and hesitation, I gingerly step over the granite line marking the boundary of each continent like one stepping into a cool bath tub.  

We say goodbye to the cyclists and speed down the hill. I turn my head for one last glimpse of the green fields of Asia disappearing behind me, but they have already faded behind the rising Urals.  

We are in Europe now.

Heading west from Novosibirsk, a giant industrial city located in central Siberia, the earth becomes flat as the spine of a drunkard asleep upon the floor. One can turn in any direction and see the same thing: a seemingly never-ending expanse of prairie land without the slightest dip, hill, or rise in the terrain.

We have cycled 3,800 miles here from the Pacific Ocean. This is the beginning of the steppe, a vast expanse of grassland and swamp that consumes much of the Central Asian part of Russia.

Twenty years ago, an American writer for National Geographic named Mark Jenkins arrived here with a group of cyclists crossing the former Soviet Union. Before embarking on our trip last winter, we contacted Jenkins and asked him what problems we might confront. Jenkins replied with an informative e-mail, but ended his electronic epistle with a cautionary tone. “One more thing boys,” he wrote, “riding from Asia to Europe, the westerlies, prevailing winds in the northern latitudes, will blow against you on the steppe. We battled strong headwinds that significantly slowed us down. I would seriously consider going the other way.”

Ignoring advice given by one more experienced than yourself seems foolhardy. But in order to follow Jenkins advice, we would have had to start our trip one year later in order to slowly ride across Europe in the middle of winter and arrive in Russia during spring. Neither Ellery or myself were willing to put off our trip.

We decided to ride against the wind.

Decisions are easily made when you are thousands of miles away from real life situations. Riding out of Novosibirsk, we cross a bridge above the Ob River, one of the largest waterway’s in Asia, which flows thousands of miles northward into the Arctic Ocean. As the buildings of Novosibirsk and the Ob disappear behind us, the Russian Federal Highway trails away into flat steppe. The sound of whipping wind soon replaces the city clamor. It seems to blow against me harder with each passing mile. Most days, I can keep my bicycle moving around 16 mph. Today, I struggle to do 12 mph, and soon find myself breathless.

Cycling along the steppe presents some of the hardest challenges we have faced yet. The first months of this trip were spent riding rough dirt roads over rugged mountain ranges in Eastern Siberia north of China and Mongolia. During that stage, I dreamt of one day arriving somewhere with flatter land and better roads. Now that dream has become reality and presents new hardships.

While riding a bicycle, your stamina depends upon taking short breaks from pedaling. On a flat stretch of road, or downhill, I take small rests. Riding on the steppe, billowing winds gain speed over thousands of miles of flat land. You must pedal constantly against them to maintain a decent speed. If you rest for a second, the bike instantly comes to a stop, and you must use even more exertion to get yourself going again. You tire quickly here and move slower. Sometimes just maintaining 10 mph seems impossible.

The steppe is mentally more challenging than it is physically. Before me rests the ultimate tease: flat earth and good roads. The image before my eyes sends gleeful messages to my brain, telling my legs that we can finally move faster. The wind is an invisible obstacle which forbids my legs from accomplishing what my brain thinks my body can do. You must exercise extreme patience and try to believe that the wind is not a malicious creature. To stay positive, I remind myself that the wind and I are just two natural forces who momentarily are traveling in different directions.

The Siberian plains are all at once a beautiful, captivating, desolate, and tough part of the earth. The area is sparsely populated by humans and each day we rarely see more than two villages. Between these scattered outposts we occasionally pass through rolling fields of golden wheat and sunflowers whose myriad crowns of yellow pedals glow vibrantly on the earth like shining constellations in the night sky.

Much of the steppe is not as visually stunning. The region is mainly covered in lowlands filled with interminable stretches of swamp. For miles on either side of the lonesome road, groves of dead birch trees rise from pools of brackish water like the skeletal remains of prehistoric beasts stranded in the muck. A thick layer of green algae covers the water, obscuring what mysteries lay beneath like a thick shroud of velvet.

These expanses of swamp are not lifeless; birds thrive here. In Siberia, we have mainly seen birds of prey. But the plains abound with a fantastic array of fowl. Majestic wide-winged black and white birds peck at the roadside and soar into the air when I intrude into their habitat. Mallard ducks bob in pools of algae. Song birds fill the trees, and, in marshy areas, where stands of reeds fan out into endless swamp, small brown birds resembling sand pipers eye me from the roadside. Their presence here can make you imagine the marshland belongs to a long tidal inlet in New England or section of the bayou along the Gulf coast.

This colossal swamp is inscrutable. Each day, I have trouble conceptualizing its immensity. I would prefer to believe that a seashore lies at the distant point where the plains collide with the sky. But this is Central Asia. There is no sea for thousands of miles. This flat swampland stretches from here to the Arctic Ocean.

At night, we make camp, and the swamp’s fiercest brethren, mosquitoes, attack us in swarms. Bugs here are startlingly numerous. Stepping into the woods on the steppe is an almost hallucinatory sensation. In seconds, hordes of mosquitoes pour forth from the trees, bushes, and forest floor, in such vast numbers it looks like entire particles of the earth have become weightless and are flowing toward you. I wear a bug net around my face and chest to protect me. As I set up my tent, they buzz around my head like magical winged fairies and sprites, excited by the presence of this strange traveler in their land, who speak to me in a static language I cannot understand.

We move slowly through this strange environment. The wind hinders our progress. One day the breeze shifts behind us and we ride across the steppe with ease. We cover as much ground as possible. By nightfall we complete our longest day yet: 136 miles. The headwinds return the next day stronger than ever.

Finally, we reach the city of Omsk in the middle of the steppe. My jaw nearly drops when the city’s buildings come into view. I have spent so much time gazing at flat earth, I nearly forgot what the real world looks like.

Every day we are getting closer to Europe, closer to civilization. If we had taken Mark Jenkins advice, we would be exiting the developed world now, instead of nearing it. Despite the challenges, I am excited about our direction of travel.

Nevertheless, if years from now, someone were to ask me for advice about riding a bicycle from Asia to Europe, I would feel obligated to give them a cautionary admonition.

“I would seriously consider going the other way,” I’d say.

 Mosquitoes Gather On My Tent For Warmth In The Morning

My alarm rings at dawn. After riding over 3,500 miles, another day has begun.

I drowsily peer through my tent window. Outside, the dark image of my bicycle appears like a charcoal drawing etched on a rosy horizon. Heavy dews are rare in the middle of summer making for ideal camping conditions. Instead of futilely waving our rain fly's in the air to dry them, this morning my riding partner Ellery and me simply eat breakfast, pack our bags, and hit the road.
 
Our day begins cruising up and down rolling hills which undulate into foggy valleys. Descending from the hills, I can barely see while speeding through thick fog. Beads of moisture collect on my thin wool pullover and glimmer like gemstones when I rise up the next small hill back into the sunlight.
 
By 8AM the sun rises above the treetops and the fog evaporates. The suffocating feeling of rising humidity replaces the cool air of early morning. Droplets of sweat soon pour from my brow, roll down my cheeks and neck, and soak my shirt. By midday, the hot sun makes central Siberia feel like a tropical island. The swooshing sound of my legs turning the pedals becomes barely audible amidst the shrill buzz of cicadas. The sound of insects chirping is a natural soundtrack to a sweltering summer day. It is high summer in Russia and it's unmercifully hot. 
 
Most people associate Russia with wintry visions of St. Basil's Cathedral in Moscow with people traipsing beneath its colorful spires wearing large fur hats to protect them from bitter cold. Before leaving for this trip last winter, Ellery and I discovered how much these images permeate many Americans' conceptions of Russia.
 
"We are going to ride bicycles across the entirety of Russia and then into Europe," I told people.
 
"You can't do that!" many commonly responded, "won't it be winter there?"

The misinterpretation that Russia rests under a spell of eternal winter is not entirely unfounded. The average winter temperature in Siberia is below 0 degrees Fahrenheit, and can often dip to minus 30 or more. In late June, we frequently cycled past rivers with frozen ice still melting along the shoreline. Long winters here cause the identities of the four seasons to blur together.
 
These statistics once made it hard for me to believe that hot summer days existed in Siberia too. I recall curiously reading classic Russian novels in which the authors describe humid summer scenes that contradict the frozen world one distantly associates with Russia. A simple passage in Leo Tolstoy's famous novel Anna Karenina, which describes the character Levin happily mowing his fields on a sultry summer day, particularly stands out to me now. "In this hottest time," Tolstoy writes, "the mowing did not seem hard to him. The sweat that drenched him cooled him off, and the sun, burning on his back. . .gave him firmness and perseverance in his work . . . the scythe cut by itself."
 
Although Tolstoy wrote in the 19th century, as so often happens in the rural country I pass through, I find that the country of today greatly resembles that of yore. During summer months, Russian men remain almost permanently shirtless because of the scorching heat. Many are so tan it appears they have remained half naked since the first warm day of spring. I cycle by them working in their gardens, or cutting hay fields with long scythe's collecting it in large piles. They wave as I pass then return to labor under the hot sun.
 
The vision of men using scythes sticks in mind. I'm continually amazed by how little rural life in Russia has changed over time.

Russians, not surprisingly, relish the heat. Many build small saunas near their houses to enjoy during winter months. In cities, I'm often appalled riding on stiflingly hot buses where windows remain shut even in summer. I sweat profusely next to women wearing thick sweaters. Russia is a land of extremes; its residents possess an equal tolerance for intense hot and cold.
 
I cannot boast the same stoicism. We have long since readjusted our riding schedules in accordance with the muggy weather, rising at dawn to cover ground early, and resting during sweltering afternoons.
 
The summer solstice may be long behind us, but in the northern hemisphere, light still remains, in the sky now until 10:30 PM even in the middle of August. The intense amount of daylight causes high temperatures. By 3PM riding a bicycle along burning asphalt feels like standing in a frying pan. Some days, even by 6PM, it is so hot we must stop every ten miles to cool off.
 
I often feel like we are the only ones seeking shade. Even on remote sections of road, we spot people everywhere. Many drive miles from their villages to gather berries in distant fields and clearings. They pick strawberries, raspberries, and blueberries which grow abundantly in the wild, and sell them on the roadside. Each time I ride over a bridge above a river or stream, I see hordes of people picnicking, swimming in the water, and fishing. It seems the whole country is outdoors in the blistering weather.

When the heat becomes too intense, we sometimes rest in fields out in the middle of nowhere. Soon a smiling stranger with a basket of berries, or an old shepherd walking with a herd of cows, whipping them with a switch made of grass, inevitably passes by. A Russian summer is different than in America. Here there is an excess of land that seems to belong to nobody. People here are free to graze their animals where they like, and pick berries wherever they grow. The movement of people is not limited by property boundaries and 'No Tresspassing' signs.
 
In Russia, life abounds during summer. We cycle past entire fields filled with wildflowers that are all the same color. In the distance, these expanses of flowers appear like purple or yellow lakes. They brilliantly emblazon the horizon, forcing me to appreciate the wonders which these scorching days create.
 
'The proliferation of plant growth here seems magical,' I think to myself.
 
It is not long before the spell begins to break. During the final days of July, the reverberations of the earth spinning on its axis become palpable in the return of colder nights. In the mornings, I now find my tent covered in heavy dew, the first sign that summer is concluding.
 
In the first week of August, we notice that some leaves are already changing color. The days are no longer as hot, and we can now ride anytime, undisturbed by the heat. Men begin wearing shirts again. Folks now sell mushrooms they gather in the forest by the roadsides instead of berries.
 
The almost supernatural summer months in Russia are fading, slowly falling victim to cooler fall weather. Only two months ago, I saw ice floating down a river. Now the peak of summer in Russia already seems intangible. A magical time which exists only in rumors and story books. 

Winston Churchill may have put it best when he famously described Russia as, “a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.” Cycling along a rough dirt road in the middle of Siberia, I finally begin to understand what he meant.

To say Russia is immense would be an understatement: The country contains one-eighth of the world’s total land mass, spanning northern Asia and Europe. We have now traveled 3,000 miles across Russia on bicycles, but we are only halfway across the country. Cycling the length of Russia is equivalent to driving from New York to Chicago nine times.

Gazing at a map of Siberia is a visual playground for your imagination to run wild; there is simply so much space that one can only speculate what exists within its borders. With so many miles still ahead of us, and the quality of the roads here still subject to frequent changes, we can often only stare at our map and hypothesize about what future obstacles may confront us.

Major Siberian cities are often separated by 500 miles of forest and rural villages. The one federal road that crosses the country continually changes form. At times we ride along a road resembling a major U.S. highway, but as you stray farther from civilization, it often transforms into a mere country lane filled with potholes, or a rough dirt road. On a map, the federal highway appears as a single red line. But what this bright splash of rouge really signifies in reality remains a constant mystery.

Before arriving in Russia, we knew road quality in eastern Siberia would slow our progress. More than a month ago, for 500 miles, the Russian Federal Highway dissipated into a dirt road until we reached the city of Chita. For three weeks, we traveled through remote country between small villages with no running water or indoor plumbing. During this section of the trip, while looking on our maps at the vast sections of Russia fanning thousands of miles westward toward Moscow, I imagined a more developed world would appear after Chita with paved roads and small towns with flush toilets instead of outhouses.

Obtaining accurate information about the reality of the road ahead can be extremely difficult. Most people who we speak with are villagers who have never strayed far from their place of birth. Oftentimes, our most reliable sources of information come from young Russian men we meet from the Russian Pacific Coast, who make a lving by investing in cheap used cars imported from Japan and drive them into central Russia to resell for profit.

Several weeks ago, we met one such driver named Alex who had driven cars across the length of Russia four times. We sat over several vodka's and examined a Russian map together, then asked him questions about the road ahead. As he spoke, I listened to his words as if receiving an oracle’s proclamation.

“Soon you will reach sections of road with no pavement again,” he said, pointing to a section of central Russia spanning nearly 600 miles. “There the off-road sections are not as long as before, but the road quality is even worse. This is a very poor section of Russia,” he explained.

His answers caused my fantasy that we would soon enter a more developed world to disintegrate like a sand castle beneath a crashing wave.

Several hundred miles down the road, Alex’s prediction became reality. One afternoon, I spied a car in the distance with a hazy cloud of beige dust trailing behind it. I immediately knew we were headed for more off-road.

There are few things so disheartening as regressing. In the coming days, we hit the odd juxtaposition of paved roads interspersed with rough dirt roads. We assume these strange transitions exist because frost heaves and brutally cold Siberian winters destroy the roads so much that construction crews only have time to cover bad sections of road in remote areas with gravel instead of repairing them.

For four days we continue down some of the worst roads we have encountered yet. Clouds of dust emitted by passing vehicles coat my body in filth. I try tying a handkerchief around my face to avoid breathing in the dust, but the summer heat is too intense to put anymore clothes on. When trucks drive by, I simply hold my breath. Removing my sunglasses at the end of the day, I discover that my eyes are the only area of my face not covered in dirt. I look like a raccoon.

Hitting a stretch of good road here, I speed up in a vain attempt at escaping this part of Russia, and then suddenly must brake to swerve around a stretch of potholes. At one point, we hit a several-mile section of road constructed of large concrete blocks which have been ripped up from an old airport runway and recycled on the road before me. I must ride slowly to avoid hitting bits of rusty rebar which jut out into this makeshift road and might puncture a tire. Clouds of huge horseflies and mosquitoes surround me as I slow down, whirling around me in circles like satellites revolving in the earth’s orbit. I try to swat them as they bite me, but it only slows me more.

As our second day ends, we reach a small village of several hundred people. We locate the one store in town and stock up on food. As we walk out, the women who run the store offer to call the principal of the local elementary school to let us sleep there. An hour later, I am unfolding my sleeping bag on the floor of a large log cabin-style building which serves as the local school.

That evening, I sit in the schoolyard and observe the village around me. Several goats and a cow graze freely by the sides of buildings. Strangely, I don’t exactly feel like a stranger here. I grew up on a small farm with cows and sheep as a child in a small town in Maine called Sedgwick and attended kindergarten in a two-room schoolhouse built in the 19th century. I often become frustrated when Russians in these villages assume that I come from a modern American city and have led a very different life than their own. When I tell them I that I grew up in an old farm hourse, in a small town about the same size as this one, they don’t seem to believe me until I tell them it is located somewhat close to Boston.

‘‘Oh, Boston,” they finally say with glimmers of recognition in their eyes.

“Do you have roads in America like the ones here,” they routinely ask.

“Yes, many,” I reply, recalling dirt roads running through blueberry fields behind my house that I used to ride my bike on as boy, “but the difference is that our highways are paved.”

Ellery and I set forth from the elementary school the following morning and continue down a gravel road which resembles a logging trail. We make jokes to brighten the rough start to another day.

“How can Russia, a country with a seat on the United Nations Security Council and a member state of the G8, along with countries like France and the United Kingdom, not achieve what countries like Guatemala and South Africa have done: put one paved road across the entire country?” we say laughing, yelling at the trees.

In two more days, we arrive in the city of Krasnoyarsk. We are now halfway across Russia.

“After Krasnoyarsk, the road finally improves,” Alex told us before we parted ways.

From there we continue, further within the enigma.

Over one year ago, I met a young American named Eric in Bogota, Colombia riding a bicycle loaded with camping gear. He was a Harvard graduate and former computer programmer who had abandoned his comfortable life to seek adventure. His goal was to cycle alone from the Arctic Circle in northern Alaska to the southern tip of South America. He had already spent a year riding through Alaska, Canada, the western U.S., Mexico, and Central America.
 
Eric became very excited when I told him about my dream of biking across Asia and Europe. We went out for lunch to talk about the endeavor in a small run-down cafe near Bogota's central plaza looking out at the Andes mountains.
 
"How much training do you recommend I do before starting?" I asked earnestly speaking over a lively salsa tune blaring in the background.
 
"None," he replied brusquely. "To be honest, I had hardly done any riding before starting this trip. I just knew I wanted to do it, so I flew to the Arctic Circle and went for it," he said in a carefree manner while devouring a plate of rice and beans.
 
"Don't get me wrong, the first few weeks are rough," he warned. 'But your body will quickly get used to it," he said with a wise glimmering look in his youthful eyes.
 
"People you meet must be amazed by what you are doing," I said.
 
He smirked.
 
"When I tell people about my trip, they usually just shake their heads and say, 'Wow, that's a long ways."
 
Nearly a year after we spoke, my riding partner Ellery and I began our trip on a cold April morning on the Pacific Coast of Russia. After an entire winter hardly riding my bicycle, we laboriously began climbing up and down coastal mountains on our first day. Each mile was a struggle. I could only get my heavy bicycle up each hill by pedaling in the easiest gear, stopping for frequent breaks. In these moments, I drew a sense of solace from my conversation with Eric in Colombia. It repeated in my head like a catchy advertisement.
 
"Don't worry about training, you'll be fine in a few weeks," he had said.
 
"I just can't wait to experience what riding this bike will feel like a month from now," I said optimistically to Ellery while rubbing my sore muscles at the end of that strenuous first day.
 
89 days have now passed since that arduous beginning and we have completed over a quarter of our trip. The most remote sections of Russia with the worst roads now rest behind us. Some of the most difficult sections of this trip are over.
 
We begin our 89th day on the road speeding along a flat valley. A light rain falls gently upon my skin. It is a welcome relief at the onset of another muggy day.

For the past week, we have been slowly following a coastal road in eastern Siberia along Lake Baikal, the world's largest freshwater lake. A steep mountain soon swallows the valley and I slowly begin climbing upwards. Before the first winding mountain turn, I stop to take in one last glimpse of the breathtaking green hills which spill into this beautiful lake below.

Near me several old women sell fish by the roadside. I grew up on the coast and I feel comfortable on Baikal. I love how the cool breeze blowing off the water reminds me of my summers in coastal Maine. For an instant, I don't want to leave; we won't see another beach for almost 4,000 miles until we reach the Black Sea. But the road ahead invariably holds great experiences and new faces. I turn my head and hop on my bike.
 
Today we will witness a significant change in the landscape. For over six weeks, we have crossed mountain ranges spanning northward out of China and Mongolia. This morning we will do a six mile climb and then continue over smaller mountains for 70 miles. By day's end, we will descend from the mountains for good. During the next month, we will cross rolling hills, swamp, and steppe, the flat prairie land of western Siberia. Sluggishly moving up the mountain, I become excited by this development.

Halfway up the first climb, the light rain turns into a downpour. Even riding in heavy rain is a gift when traveling in a characteristically humid Siberian summer. Cool droplets of water fall on my shoulders with a heavenly sensation and drain down my arms in miniature rivulets. Near the mountain top, we stop to pump up Ellery's rear tire, which has developed a slow leak. I stand, back arched, feet planted in the muddy hill, holding both heavy bikes upright while he pumps the tire. My body is so hot from riding that slender wisps of steam radiate off it, floating amidst a torrent of summer rain.
 
Just before we reach the summit, the rain stops and the humidity instantly returns. Soon I'm sweating again and can't wait to feel the cool breeze of the first descent. Riding a bicycle over time only feels like a more and more efficient mode of transportation. I have learned to move through mountains as quickly as possible, shifting to the toughest gear to gain velocity down a hill, then maintaining my speed by moving to easier gears as I try to race up the next one.
 
My leg muscles are now specially trained to move the bike quickly. Bicycle travel feels efficient now, not slow. Running through the gears as I ride my bike reminds me of driving my old stick-shift truck. As we we finish the six mile climb, I victoriously slam the bike into the toughest gear. The chain moves with a loud clank, like a door slamming shut or a gun being cocked, shattering the silence of the still mountain air. I am off, flying down the mountain like a bullet. 
 
The combination of gravity and the incline of the hill pulling you and your bicycle downwards is pure freedom. In a series of mountains like this, it is often over in an instant and you're climbing up the next hill. You lose yourself in the rhythm of going slow and fast, fast and slow, shifting from a tough gear to an easier one, continuously moving forward.
 
By late afternoon, the traffic intensifies with people returning home after a weekend relaxing near Lake Baikal. They pass by me winding around mountain turns which curl like a piglet's tail. Finally, the repetition of mountains is broken by a five mile descent onto flat land. I yell and scream with excitement as the bicycle effortlessly rolls forth down the mountain. Reaching the bottom, I look back at the familiar sight of a small marsh standing below a backdrop of towering mountains. I will miss this beautiful section of Russia, but my excitement that we have successfully moved into another geographic zone drowns my nostalgia.

'Eric was right,' I think now, 'bicycle travel does eventually get easier.'
 
That night, we arrive in the city of Irkutsk to rest. Over time, I have found that although the scenery changes on this trip, my interactions with people remain similar. When they see my bicycle with its huge orange panniers, they just want to know where you are coming from and where you are going. Answering this question can become monotonous.
 
Standing in the center of Irkutsk, a man approaches me and my bike with the same introductory query.
 
"We're riding from the Pacific to Atlantic Ocean," I say routinely in Russian.
 
The man just shakes his head.
 
"Wow, that's a long ways," he says.

 For six weeks, we have ridden through rugged mountains across eastern Siberia and the details which dapple the landscape here are now quite familiar. A hawk soaring above me or large rivers winding through the wilderness are common sights. I spot the first sign of changing geography one afternoon. It appears in the form of a seagull flapping its wings in the sky.
 
When attempting to ride a bicycle across an entire continent, the sight of a major body of water is the first mark of progress. I have greatly anticipated the moment when we will reach Lake Baikal, the world's largest freshwater lake. From the Sea of Japan, we have cycled nearly 2,400 miles across Russia to get there. The sea gull's presence confirms that this important landmark is now only miles away.

Baikal is the biggest and oldest lake in the world resting in a rift valley formed by the divergence of two tectonic plates 25 million years ago. Over 300 hundred rivers and streams feed Baikal, filling a giant basin which is over a mile deep and contains 20% of the world's unfrozen fresh water. On a map, Baikal looks like a skinny crescent moon carved into the center of northern Asia. Gazing at this image in a world atlas invariably inspires an alluring sense of intrigue.
 
We near Baikal on a sweltering afternoon, cycling over numerous bridges built over clear mountain streams flowing northward into the lake. Each one gives me that same anxious feeling of imminent discovery one has while playing hide and seek as a child, when you have searched everywhere and the remaining places your opponent could be hidden are few.
 
While riding along, I do a double take as I casually glance at a small Siberian village to the right and see that a small road between simple log cabins leads to a great expanse of periwinkle water glimmering in the sun instead of deep green forests. Smiling and excited, I triumphantly push the pedals onwards to the small town of Babushkin where we plan to camp by the beach tonight.  
 
The stifling heat of a summer afternoon in Siberia challenges the chilly images one associates with central Russia. Entering Babushkin, I pass typical Siberian homes painted in vibrant blues, greens, and, sometimes even oranges and yellows. By their sides, little boys, barefoot and shirtless, chests deeply bronzed by the summer sun, scamper down dusty dirt roads carrying fishing poles towards the blue water. A cool breeze rustles the green leaves in the trees along the roadside. I momentarily feel like I am back in the dingy Caribbean coastal towns I visited while traveling in Venezuela a year ago. When we enter Babushkin's only cafe, I almost must restrain myself from saying the typical Spanish greeting 'buenas tardes' to the waitress.  Instead, I utter the harsh sounding 'Zdrastvootye' the Russian word for Hello.
 
When I stepped foot in this country last winter and began studying Russian, some of the first words I learned were cold, snow, and scarf. Those words are useless now. In the cafe, Ellery and I consult our Russian-English dictionary to formulate a question which I once never imagined asking in Russian.
 
'Can you tell us where the beach is?" we ask the waitress almost laughing.

Babushkin is tucked between towering mountains rolling into the lake. We cycle down a dirt road to the shore where men fish in small dinghies bobbing on the water. From here, you can see dramatic mountains which ring the lake’s opposite side. Baikal is the deepest lake in the word, but its immensity can be deceiving. Although it contains more fresh water than all of the American Great Lakes combined, its surface area is smaller than Lake Superior.

Baikal makes me feel like I’ve returned home. Smooth, gray rocks, each about the size of a small turtle shell, cover the shore and lead to freezing cold water. A sense of familiarity overtakes me here; it seems like I have been whisked halfway around the world to the rocky Maine coast I grew up near.

Riding to the beach’s end, an amiable man runs to the road and welcomes us.

“Are you the Americans riding bicycles across Russia?” he asks.

The smiling stranger is named Alex, a Russian from St. Petersburg. He saw us on national television when we started our trip in Vladivostok, Russia, almost three months ago and recognized us.

“My wife and I took a trip to the Russian Far East to visit family and now we are driving home across Russia,” he says, adding that he’s happy he has seen us on the road home.

Today is Alex’s birthday, and he invites us to a celebratory picnic with his wife Tanya. Russians are expert picnickers and the spread of olives, cucumbers, cheeses, and meats which Tanya has set out on a blanket upon the beach is no exception. Among the typical fare, Tanya slices an Omul, a fish found only in Baikal related to salmon. Fish is a significant part of Russian cuisine, and Omul is raved about all over the country. Tanya hands me a piece of the smoked fish, and, as soon as I place it in my mouth, I understand what the fuss is about.

“Eta ochen, ochen vakoosna!” I say uncontrollably. “It’s really, really good!”

Baikal’s age and isolation have produced some of the most diverse freshwater species on earth; the lake contains more than 2,000 different types of plants and animals, 1,200 of which are only found here. Among the more exotic Baikal residents are the Baikal oil fish, a translucent deep water fish which melts into a pool of bones and oil when exposed to sunlight, and, the Nerpa, freshwater seals.

We dine with our new friends under a sunset that lasts for hours. During early summer in the northern hemisphere, there are only several hours of complete darkness each night. The orange light of dusk glows in the sky until nearly midnight. The beauty and longevity of the setting sun is the key ingredient that makes Russian picnics so special.

We stay up well into the night picnicking, exchanging stories from the road, laughing, and making toasts to our new friendship with the older couple. Finally, Alex proposes that we go for a dip in the chilly lake. Baikal is frozen for so much of the year that the water remains extremely cold. A brief splash in the water can make your extremities begin to go numb. We all jump in and then run out. Tanya stays in the longest.

“I worked as a stewardess when I was a young woman,” she says emerging from the water at last, “and we often flew over Baikal. I have seen this lake many times, but tonight is my first time actually swimming in it.”

Each of us has waited a long time to arrive at this unique spot. I feel so lucky to be here in such good company.

“It was my dream to meet you,” Alex tells us before we go to sleep. “This has been my best birthday ever.”

I look at the rocky coast from my tent one more time before turning in. It uncannily resembles my far-off home. Baikal is a very special place, I think, but making new friends can be more poignant than absorbing the details of the landscape.

 
The Buryat people have lived in this part of Russia since time immemorial and today are the largest minority ethnic group in Siberia. Their roots are Mongolian and they are still considered the northernmost Mongol group, numbering nearly 500,000 people. Most Buryat's live in the Autonomous Republic; the territory was annexed from China to the Russian state in the early 18th century.

The Buryat were originally a nomadic people who herded animals and often lived in yurts, cylindrical tent like dwellings covered in felt or skins. During the Soviet period of Russia, the Buryat Republic was industrialized and nomadic ways of Buryat life began disappearing. Today, most Buryat's live in the Republic's capital Ulan-Ude.  

Several days after reaching the Republic, we enter Ulan-Ude and I reexperience the chaotic sensation of navigating the busy roads of a city on a bicycle. Amidst whirling traffic, I notice a change in the Russians walking along the sidewalks. Here, blond women and rosy-cheeked children are replaced with ethnic Buryat's. The people here are beautiful. Their olive skin accentuates the natural hues in their deep eyes; the long black hair of Buryat women seems to shine luminously in the sunlight.  

Nearing the center of town, a brand new and distinctly Asiatic building comes into view next to a shopping mall. It is one of those iconic Asian buildings, like the kind you expect to see on the cover of tourist brochures for trips to China; the edges of the roof curl upward like the corners of old linoleum. The building was finished so recently that the yellow tiles on the rooftop still gleam freshly in the afternoon sun. In a Russian city, the building looks out of place, and appears tawdry at first glance. Judging by its gaudy exterior, I mistake the building for a cheesy overpriced Asian restaurant; but it is actually a brand new datsan, a Buddhist monastery.  

Like many Mongolians, most Buryat's follow the Tibetan branch of Buddhism, which in 1741 was first recognized as an official religion in Russia. By the beginning of the 20th century, the Buryat Buddhist church grew extremely large and forty-eight datsans were built in and around Ulan-Ude. After the Russian Revolution, when Soviet power sought to turn Russia into an atheist state, many Christian churches and Buddhist monasteries were destroyed.  

Buddhism is an integral aspect of Buryat culture. Since the Soviet Union's end, practicing Buddhists in this part of Russia have steadily increased. Today, the surrounding hillsides around Ulan-Ude gleam with the curved roofs of newly constructed datsans.

In Ulan-Ude, we are taken in by a young Russian girl named Maria, whose family came to Russia from Germany several generations ago. One afternoon, we visit the Ivolginsk Datsan, a large complex inhabited by Buddhist monks, outside the city. The datsan is situated in a beautiful valley ridged by high mountains covered in mist.

When we arrive, a light rain falls upon the earth. We enter the premises and visit the datsans by walking along a small pathway. Between each building, prayer wheels, cylindrical wheels on spindles often made of wood or metal, stand in a rows. In the Tibetan branch of Buddhism, spinning the wheels as one walks by has the same spiritual effect as reciting a prayer out loud. As I stop to study the Sanskrit images on one wheel, I almost jump in surprise as a monk clad in a burgundy robe passes by me spinning the wheels. Watching him in the pouring rain, I feel like I am really standing in Asia for the first time.

 A Building In The Ivolginsk Datsan

The next day, we tour the Open Air Ethnographical Exhibition, a large outdoor museum in a field near Ulan-Ude with displays of reconstructed traditional Buryat dwellings. Strolling along a wooded path, we observe a small tepee made from bark. The construction reminds me of learning about Native Americans in Maine during the 5th grade. I remember going into the woods and gathering bark to make a diorama with tepees. Recalling how our teacher taught us that it is believed the first people who arrived in North America might have originally crossed on a now nonexistent land bridge from northern Asia, I look at this tepee here and the theory seems more plausible than ever.

In the Buryat Republic, you can almost sense the migratory patterns of humans over time. Europeans who moved to remote sections of Asia live alongside Buryats whose ancestors may have populated North America. As humans move, their ideas and ways of living spread; I find ethnic Russians here who practice Buddhism, and native people whose distantly related forefathers could also have inhabited America living nomadic lifestyles in tepees.

Even as a traveler, it is impossible to move through the world without acquiring new habits.

Leaving Ulan-Ude, we begin a long climb on our bicycles up a steep mountain. Arriving at the top, I reach into my pocket, grab some coins, and throw them behind me. The jingling of several rubles on the pavement faintly echoes behind me is I speed away into the valley below.

Buying train tickets in Siberia can be stressful because all train schedules are listed on Moscow time regardless of what part of Russia you are in. The experience can be baffling while traveling in the Asian part of Russia; Bada is in the same time zone as Indonesia, six hours ahead of Moscow in Europe. Here, you must count ahead six hours to know what time your train leaves.Today, we are taking the 4PM train to Chita, but the woman at the ticket counter tells me that it leaves at 10AM.  Traveling is hard enough without having to operate on a train schedule synchronized with a time zone thousands of miles away on a different continent.  

When our train arrives, I scurry through the rain and step up the steep stairs into the eighth passenger car. A woman in a blue uniform takes my ticket and leads me inside. The train is divided into two sections: a long hallway leads down the right side of the train, and the left side is filled with small sleeper cars. Most of the cars on the Trans-Siberian are sleeper's because the distances which people travel often last several days or more.

The woman hands me a package of blankets and opens the door for me. Inside, a Russian man rests fast asleep above a mother, grandmother, a two-year-old girl, and an infant boy who share the bottom bunks. There is no ladder to the upper bunk, so I take advantage of my height and hoist myself up. The train soon moves forward and I stare out the window at the passing countryside.

This is my first ride aboard the Trans-Siberian Railroad yet I feel like it has been part of my life for months now. Before starting this trip, I studied Russian for a month at a small university in Vladivostok, Russia on the Pacific Coast. Each night, I would listen as the trains roared past my dormitory clanking along the tracks and rounding the city's icy horseshoe bay. The famous train traverses nearly 6,000 miles from Moscow to its ending point in Vladivostok. By train the trip lasts a grueling ten days; by bicycle it will take us nearly 5 months.  

Construction of the Trans-Siberian Railroad was begun in 1891 and completed in 1913. Before the railroad's existence, the inhabitants of Siberia chiefly transported goods by rivers. Waterways were frozen for half of the year allowing horse drawn sleds to be pulled over the ice from village to village. The completion of the railroad allowed Europeans to settle this remote part of Asia in great numbers and spawned the creation of businesses, like the sawmill in Bada, in this remote part of the planet.  

Today, the well-known railroad has captured the imaginations of traveler's all over the world. The train allows one to travel by rail from Moscow to Beijing. The Trans-Siberian is one of the only overland links connecting the old world of Europe with the distant mystery of inner Asia.

 The Trans-Siberian Rolls Across 6,000 Miles, Eight Time Zones, And Two Continents From Moscow To Beijing

 

The majority of the Federal Highway we cycle across Russia runs parallel to the railroad. For months, the resounding rhythm's of boxcar's rolling over the tracks has lulled me to sleep in my tent at night. Conductor's often wave at us as the trains roll by. I have been following the railroad for so long I sometimes wonder if any of them recognize me. On my bike, I pass the time by imagining who the distant figures in the train are and where they are going. Today, sitting in a cramped sleeper car with two screaming children, I'm not so curious anymore.

In Chita, we pass several days waiting to see a doctor who prescribes Ellery with more antibiotics and new medication for his stomach. When he feels better, we take the train back to Bada. The day we leave it is a sweltering 82 degrees. The trains are designed to keep passenger's warm during freezing winters. I break into a sweat as I enter the car.  

On the return voyage, we have purchased cheaper second class seats. I am once again in an upper bunk. This one is smaller; there is not enough room for me to stretch out my legs and I must lay with my feet tucked in so they do not stick out into the aisle. It is so hot that I must lay completely motionless; if I move at all, the heat becomes unbearable.  

Six hours later, the train pulls into Bada and I am happy to get off, to hop back on my bicycle in the open breeze the next day.   

"Do you work here?" A woman who works on the train asks. 

She must assume I am in the Peace Corps.   

"Just traveling," I answer.  

The train comes to the halt and the door swings open. I step out of the car onto the platform below. My brief experience of how most people travel in Russia has come to an end.

From here we continue on bicycle.