Travels of a Different Kind: A Balance Bike in Kyrgyzstan
Reflecting on the Silk Road Mountain Race
Back in 2024, I flew to Kyrgyzstan with a singular, all-consuming focus: to race nearly 2,000 kilometres across its rugged mountain passes in the Silk Road Mountain Race. My world had narrowed to logistics, watts and survival. Every piece of gear was scrutinised, every gram counted. My bike felt like an extension of me, and my body was simply the engine to get it through the monumental physical challenge ahead. My purpose then was simple, if a little misguided: to finish what I had started. The race was meant to be the capstone at the end of years of bikepacking, an event to legitimise all the long hours and shorter journeys I had undertaken up to that point.
I operated like a machine of routine. My day would start 30 minutes before dawn, the chill of the mountain air a sharp alarm clock. I’d make a hot coffee and a breakfast of muesli with powdered milk, then methodically roll up my bivvy, sleeping bag, and mat before packing the bike and starting to pedal. The rhythm of my days was governed by the trail: filtering water from glacial streams, peeling off layers as the sun climbed high, and putting them back on as it inevitably fell. There were coffees, local ‘Nitro’ energy drinks to keep me going and brief, passing conversations with other riders, but I almost always ended the day utterly alone. I survived on four hours of sleep a night, supplemented by a few precious 20-minute naps, often pushing on until 11 pm. Sometimes I felt amazingly refreshed, truly alive in the deep wilderness; other times, a nagging question would surface—why was I putting myself through the ordeal of a ‘race’ when I could just be enjoying these incredible mountains?
That singular focus was never more apparent than on the twelfth day, as I approached the infamous Shamsi Pass. A storm was brewing on the horizon, the sky darkening with an unmistakable menace. As I ground my way up the climb, I passed a handful of other riders pulling over, wisely setting up camp before the summit. One of them looked at me, then at the sky and called me crazy for pushing on. But I’d had a good lunch and a coffee a couple of hours earlier, and I was feeling strong. More importantly, my competitive drive had kicked in. I knew two other riders were ahead of me and, by my calculations, they were going to climb over that night. I wanted to prove something to myself, to beat them.
My decision was based on two thin pieces of information. First, my experience in Kyrgyzstan so far was that storms could be violent but brief. Second, I knew that Joe Nation, the eventual race winner, had crested this very pass in the dark and bad weather several days earlier. My commitment was set.
As the sun disappeared, the world shrank to the small, dancing pool of light cast by my headlamp and bike lights. The terrain was a mess of wet, rocky track. Soon, the rain turned to snow and the wind became a physical force, pushing me anywhere but forward. On that brutal ascent, a new, terrifying reality dawned: if I stopped now, I would die on that mountain. I was trapped between my own stubborn decision and the rawest of circumstances: live or die. I felt tired, cold and a wave of anger washed over me—anger at myself for choosing this path. But there was no turning back. Six hours later, exhausted, numb, and utterly spent, I made it up and over the pass. That was my reality in 2024: a solo battle against the elements, driven by a need to prove I could endure.
This year, I’m flying to Kyrgyzstan again. And once more, I’m travelling with a bike.
But this time, the bike isn't for me. It’s a tiny, orange balance bike, carefully packed into a box, destined for my two-year-old nephew, Jack. And I’m not heading to a start line. I’m heading to my wedding.
The story of this transformation began quietly, almost a year earlier. In December 2023, while researching Kyrgyz culture on YouTube, I stumbled upon an interview with a woman named Aigul. She spoke with such passion and intelligence about her country that I was captivated. At the end of the video, she mentioned her business: a hostel in Bishkek called Apple Hostel. It seemed to cater specifically for adventurers, so I booked my first three nights.
Within hours of arriving in Kyrgyzstan, there she was. Aigul, alive and in person, helping travellers just like in the video. I was instantly nervous; it felt like meeting a celebrity. In my mind, she was already someone special. It wasn’t a fairy tale from the start, however. I can be socially awkward and in my nervousness, I asked for some overly specific advice on finding a semi-nomadic homestay. She could only suggest I search on Booking.com. I’m fairly sure I didn't leave a good first impression.
But as the days went by, a quiet connection began to form. We’d find ourselves sitting in silence in the hostel's co-working space—me managing my bike shop business back home, she doing admin for the hostel. I attended a fascinating presentation she gave on Kyrgyz history. The next day, I joined a hike she organised. I could feel her walls coming down as she started asking about my life and my perspectives on things.
The real shift happened during her Food Tour of Bishkek. As we visited markets and cafés, we fell into a deep, easy conversation about our lives. She seemed surprised at how freely we could talk, so much so that she completely lost track of time and the tour ran two hours late. As she rushed back to the hostel, I offered to help her with a few things. I think she appreciated the gesture.
On my fourth day, she saw me off at the bus station as I left for the mountains—a clear sign, I hoped, that I was more than just another tourist. I impulsively offered to take her out for karaoke when I returned, and to my surprise, she accepted. I got her number and spent the next week riding around the stunning, high-altitude Song-Kul Lake, thinking about her constantly.
With no reliable phone connection, I could only hope she’d remember me. Two days out from Bishkek, I found a signal and left a few rambling voice messages, asking if the karaoke offer still stood. We settled on dinner instead. I insisted on making all the plans, sensing she would appreciate a traveller taking the work off her shoulders for once. Feeling adventurous and emboldened by something a local guide had told me, I did something a little audacious. I bought her flowers and planted them in a secret spot where I knew she would find them.
When we finally met for our date, the connection was real. We talked, shared stories, and we agreed to keep seeing each other.
During the race, our fledgling relationship continued over a fragile digital thread. Reception was terrible and I had to conserve battery, but whenever I passed through a town, my phone would buzz with messages from her. I’d reply with photos and my thoughts on her beautiful country. She followed my journey in another way, too: watching my GPS dot on the live race map. “I’m impressed,” she messaged one night, “but also slightly scared that you are riding so deep into the nighttime.” While she was going to sleep, my dot was still crawling through the mountains.
The moment everything changed came halfway through the race, in a town called Naryn. For riders, it’s known as ‘scratch city’—a place where the temptation to quit is immense. I was tired. The allure of the easy road back to Bishkek was strong. But as I rested, I thought of Aigul watching my dot. She had hinted she might come to the finish line. In that moment, I made my decision. I would stick to my plan. But this time it felt different. I wasn’t just proving something to myself anymore. I now had someone to ride towards.
My mindset for this new trip is one of adventure, albeit of a completely different kind. It might be easier to complete a bikepacking race than it is to be a good partner or to build a life with someone. There’s a fear that comes with this new chapter—a fear of performing poorly and letting down the people who now depend on me. But alongside it, there is an overwhelming excitement. Aigul and I have become a team. For someone who has operated as an individual for so long, this is the future I look forward to most.
And the orange balance bike for my nephew? It’s a continuation of a promise I made to myself. I first met Jack when he was born in 2022. I’d flown to North Carolina to see my sister, and, as usual, I brought a bike to go exploring in the Appalachian Mountains. The first time I ever held him, I was a man with a bike, about to head off on an adventure. That moment solidified my desire to be a positive influence in his life—for travel, for exploration, and for the love of riding.
In a way, that influence is already taking hold. My sister and Jack are making the incredible journey from the USA to Central Asia for our wedding. Most kids their age don't even know where Kyrgyzstan is. It’s possible these early experiences will plant the spirit of adventure deep in his heart. At least, that's what I hope.
Which brings me to the core of it all. I believe that travel and adventure, if you let them, can make you a better, more evolved version of yourself. I am a bikepacker and I always travel with a bike. Bringing my own bike for my own adventure is just more of the same—and don't get me wrong, I'm definitely not going to stop doing that. But this time, my purpose for being in Kyrgyzstan is greater. I have a relationship I am trying to build. I have a nephew whose upbringing I get to be a part of. I hope this is an evolved version of who I am, but I am still me: the Global Bikepacker.
This makes me wonder about you, the reader, and all the things that bikepacking and travelling internationally might mean for you personally. Of course, anyone doing something like the Silk Road Mountain Race or joining one of our Guided Adventures wants to achieve their goal of finishing a route they planned to ride. But there has to be more to it than that. Travelling all that way, rather than just riding a similar distance in your own country, surely points to a deeper "why". Perhaps it’s a profound interest in a different culture, society, and history. Perhaps it's the thrill of discovering a new kind of wilderness you’ve never experienced before. Or maybe, for some, the bikepacking is just one part of a bigger journey, one where they bring their husbands, wives, children, and siblings along for the experience.
Whatever it is, your 'why' can be so much more all-encompassing than my singular attitude towards the Silk Road was in 2024. In many ways, I feel incredibly lucky to have stumbled upon a deeper meaning behind my journey and now I get to have a second round in 2025. This time, I'm going in with my eyes and my heart wide open.
