Mud battle

Since I didn’t go to bed until after 3 a.m. yesterday, a late start was inevitable. Before leaving, I stocked up on food at a supermarket and wanted to exchange some cash. So I went to the nearest bank suggested by Google Maps shortly after setting off. There, they told me they don’t exchange money, and when I asked where I could do that, they simply told me to Google it.

So I stood outside the bank looking at my phone when a man approached and asked if he could help. I explained that I wanted to exchange money, but the bank couldn’t do it, so I was looking for another place. He asked how much I wanted to exchange, and when I said about 100 USD, he took out his wallet and asked how much that would be in local currency. I showed him the amount on my currency app, and he handed me a rounded amount, subtracting just a tiny bit. He also said that people in Kazakhstan are kind and like to help when they can. A really nice experience.

I then left the fairly large city. Just after passing the city sign, a car slowed down next to me, and I heard “Hi bro!” as a hand stretched out with an energy drink. That was the second nice moment of my first cycling day in Kazakhstan.

After four “rest days,” I was really happy to be back on the bike. But after about 20 km, that joy faded a bit. The good road ended here, even though I had expected it to continue further. At least there was very little traffic. A truck passed every few minutes, which reassured me—otherwise I would have been completely alone in the middle of nowhere.

At times, the road improved slightly, or I could ride on parallel tracks formed by vehicles. At one point, a train even passed by.

But what came next—by then I was already below sea level—was a nightmare for a cyclist. I learned the difference between a bad road and an unrideable one. The rain from the day before had turned the ground into mud that stuck to my wheels. Just like it once happened to me in Serbia—but there it lasted less than 200 meters; here it went on for 3–4 km.

Soon everything between the wheels and the fenders was clogged, and the wheels wouldn’t turn anymore. I tried cleaning it, but sometimes after just 20 meters, it was blocked again. Ironically, the parts that looked good were the worst—areas already churned up by cars were slightly better. Still, it kept clogging. So I removed the fenders—luckily that’s easy on my bike—but it didn’t help much. Sometimes I pushed the bike, sinking into the mud myself, but even then I often had to stop again after 10 meters.

I started to feel desperate. How was I supposed to get through this? I had no idea how long it would continue. I had only covered just over 30 km, and the only thing I knew was that at around 89 km there would be a major road, the A-33. But how was I supposed to cover another 50 km like this?

Before completely losing it, I stopped, took a deep breath, and tried to relax. My heart rate was already way too high. Then it occurred to me that even if I had to spend the night here, it would be fine—I had enough food and water, and it was warm enough not to freeze in my tent. That thought helped calm me down.

I carried my bike for a bit, then pushed it through the steppe vegetation, and gradually the mud became less. Then came a steep, rocky section—hard even for cars—and I was completely alone. After that climb, I could finally ride again. The sandy ground didn’t stick anymore. The road was still terrible, but far better than the mud before.

Eventually, I reached a small settlement, and from there the gravel road became relatively smooth. When it got bumpy, the dried mud started falling off my bike. Only a few kilometers left to the A-33!

When I finally reached the main road, I felt a huge relief. If all went well, I could still reach Shetpe before sunset—about 30 km left, roughly an hour and a half. “Well” meant riding into strong headwinds. But compared to what I had just experienced, it felt like a blessing—at least the road was perfect. I moved slower, but it didn’t matter whether I arrived 10 or 15 minutes earlier or later. My heart rate was still too high, though, so I had to slow down.

In the end, I arrived in Shetpe with the last rays of sunlight. A car that was about to join the main road signaled me to stop. I actually wanted to get to my accommodation quickly, but the man and his son were so enthusiastic to talk to me that I went along. He said he knew someone from Switzerland and tried to call them, but they didn’t answer, so he recorded a video message with me in it. He even wanted to ride my bike and handed me his phone as “security.” With his car and son there, I wasn’t worried.

I explained via Google Translate that I was looking for accommodation, and he offered to guide me there—great! Some local kids had also noticed the cyclist and came running toward me excitedly. I said goodbye quickly and followed my “guide.” Much sooner than expected, he stopped and pointed to a building across the road—that was the place. I would have ridden right past it otherwise. So I managed to arrive before dark after all. What a day. My average heart rate was over 130, whereas in Turkey with Shaun it was usually between 100 and 110, sometimes even below 100. Accordingly, my GPS suggested over 100 hours of recovery. But I didn’t actually feel that bad.

As for dinner, vegan options were hard to find here, and people weren’t very flexible, so I just had a soup and then went back to my room to eat bread with tomato paste. After that, I went straight to bed.