Gobi Desert
Rewired
It took a moment to get my bearings when I crawled from the tent on day two.
Morning stillness sat heavy. All was quiet. Wrapped around us were low rolling hills, sandy stretches and rocky patches, a landscape of horizontal bands painted with a rationed palette of autumnal yellows, oranges and browns. With no dustcloud-trailing trucks, and forgetting the east-risen sun, it was easy to be disoriented by the emptiness.
As we lashed bags to our bikes and returned to the rutted road, it was to the tune of small rocks and crushed gravel.
It was a crunch that summoned memories. It was the sound of completed journeys and the promise of rest; a kid, tired but happy, in the backseat of an old Ford as it bumped up the layback and dipped to a stop in his family’s crushed-rock driveway.
That was a world away: many years before I realised it is humbling to be in terrain that has no interest in supporting you; many years before I also realized it’s also very heavy.
On the asphalt roads of my childhood, the 50 litres of water that we carried between us—on top of food for eight days and our usual 30 kilos of gear—would be just another chance to marvel at the strength of my steel frame and Mavic rims. We were in the Gobi on an unsealed track turned up by trucks and desert winds.
We crunched our way forwards, slowly, sinking, the scenery changing to ash-coloured hills that rose and twisted us over stony plains past larger rocks. Bad-road discomfort was a constant. Perpendicular ruts and chipped stretches of stone bested our venerable B-17 saddles to paddle us and worsen the awkward weight of our backpacks. We grew thirsty for more than the 2.5 litres our delayed-by-a-sandstorm plan allowed us to sip each day. A home I hadn’t lived in for years was the last thing on my mind. I was starting to suspect that discomfort might be the quickest way to rewire links.
We had headed into the Gobi because we wanted a challenge. In that way, every jolt was a small triumph over the knowledge that not all kilometres are created equal.
Every jolt was also a step towards completely severing a link. By the time we stopped after nine hours of cycling, I knew that the crunch of gravel would never again remind me of early youth.
After Mongolia, that sound would take me to a different place.
It took a moment to get my bearings when I crawled from the tent on day two.
Morning stillness sat heavy. All was quiet. Wrapped around us were low rolling hills, sandy stretches and rocky patches, a landscape of horizontal bands painted with a rationed palette of autumnal yellows, oranges and browns. With no dustcloud-trailing trucks, and forgetting the east-risen sun, it was easy to be disoriented by the emptiness.
As we lashed bags to our bikes and returned to the rutted road, it was to the tune of small rocks and crushed gravel.
It was a crunch that summoned memories. It was the sound of completed journeys and the promise of rest; a kid, tired but happy, in the backseat of an old Ford as it bumped up the layback and dipped to a stop in his family’s crushed-rock driveway.
That was a world away: many years before I realised it is humbling to be in terrain that has no interest in supporting you; many years before I also realized it’s also very heavy.
On the asphalt roads of my childhood, the 50 litres of water that we carried between us—on top of food for eight days and our usual 30 kilos of gear—would be just another chance to marvel at the strength of my steel frame and Mavic rims. We were in the Gobi on an unsealed track turned up by trucks and desert winds.
We crunched our way forwards, slowly, sinking, the scenery changing to ash-coloured hills that rose and twisted us over stony plains past larger rocks. Bad-road discomfort was a constant. Perpendicular ruts and chipped stretches of stone bested our venerable B-17 saddles to paddle us and worsen the awkward weight of our backpacks. We grew thirsty for more than the 2.5 litres our delayed-by-a-sandstorm plan allowed us to sip each day. A home I hadn’t lived in for years was the last thing on my mind. I was starting to suspect that discomfort might be the quickest way to rewire links.
We had headed into the Gobi because we wanted a challenge. In that way, every jolt was a small triumph over the knowledge that not all kilometres are created equal.
Every jolt was also a step towards completely severing a link. By the time we stopped after nine hours of cycling, I knew that the crunch of gravel would never again remind me of early youth.
After Mongolia, that sound would take me to a different place.
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