From the Library

[Biggles]

We found Mr Shu inside, crouched on his haunches, carefully re-assembling the broken pieces of my clutch plate cover, drilling out the broken and locked-in-place bolts and re-tapping the threads in each of the holes. It was painstaking work, had little chance of being successful in my estimation, and I couldn't believe he was even attempting it, but he persisted and told us confidently that he would have it fixed later that day! He then went on to show us a replacement long bolt (for the one that was bent and stuck in my engine cover) that had been fashioned earlier that day from a piece of scrap metal. It was an exact replica of the broken part but in shiny new metal - it was incredible and I couldn't get over the level of ingenuity here. I still doubted whether it would all work and unkindly reminded Mr Shu that I still had over ten thousand kilometres to ride to get to Istanbul and I needed any sort of repair work to hold up for at least that much riding. I'm not sure if he was offended or not, but he shook his head violently from side to side and let fly with a torrent of Chinese invective that Omar simply translated as, "Mr Shu says don't worry, it will be alright for you."
The Road Gets Better From Here  Adrian Scott p141

[Biggles]

They went to work like a swarm of vultures devouring an animal left to die in the desert and soon all that was left of my bike was a skeleton frame - they had taken everything removable off to examine the wiring. I can't adequately describe how disturbing this was for me. There were at least six of them and each had removed different pieces and it was hard to see what system they were using to keep track of all the pieces and the bolts. How on earth would they re-assemble it all correctly? I tried to tidy up a little and keep things organised but I was outnumbered so retreated to the back seat of our car to eat a bread roll - my breakfast. 
My bike has a moderate level of circuitry but I had no diagrams and these guys just kept going, checking circuit by circuit trying to isolate the problem. It took about an hour but eventually they stopped and started putting things back together which I took as a signal that all was better. I tried to help put everything back together properly but when they had finished one of the kids was still holding a few largish bolts which he handed over to me quickly.
The Road Gets Better From Here  Adrian Scott p153

[Biggles]

As soon as I shut off the engine I was overwhelmed by the immense silence and simple stark beauty of the mountains.  The sky seemed a deeper blue up here and it was incredibly still and peaceful - a moment frozen in time for me. I had to pinch myself- for here I was, a rank outsider and amateur who had achieved this part of his unlikely plan - to be alone in the middle of the one of the highest and most remote mountain ranges in the world independently - it was wonderful and I felt special. 
I thought about my family and wondered where they were and what they were doing at this moment. I imagined a perspective from space looking down at me here, and them, at home. It was a strange sensation and all at once I felt utterly alone but totally connected. I thought about how far I had come, all the wonderful people I had met and all of the help I had received so far: Vassily, Anton and the Caravan of Love along the Road of Bones, Big Mama and Zhenya in Yakutsk, the train crew across Russia, Mischa, Lyuba and Bolya in Semipalatinsk, Mr Shu in Urumchi, the boys in Kashgar and many others. It was already a long list and my journey had indeed been rich in experience for me.
The Road Gets Better From Here  Adrian Scott p174

[Biggles]

I stopped at the side of the road on a wide curve high above the plateau on a steep hillside and ate some of my biscuits and drank some of my lemon fizz. But as soon as I did I knew it was a mistake - it was if someone had initiated my own internal gastro launch sequence - my stomach was full of liquid propellant and it had just been ignited. I figured I had about ten seconds to find a suitable launch pad. It's funny how, even in times of great distress like this, where time is critical, you stop and consider things like "now, where can I go to do this in private?" I could not have been more alone, but I couldn't bear the thought of soiling the Pamir Highway so I scrambled down the steep and rocky hillside, loosening my pants as I ran, quickly locating a large flat stone upon which I perched and mercifully relieved myself. My backside hung out over the long valley like a piece of giant artillery and I sat squatting like a fat cane toad in the sun, waiting patiently for this horrible episode to end. Suddenly I heard the crunching of gravel and the heavy grinding of gears above me - I looked up and realised immediately that I was positioned in clear line of sight to the road as a big Kamaz full of road workers passed by, the men in the back smiling and waving to me as the driver honked hard on his horn. I couldn't move quickly, but did manage a small salute.
The Road Gets Better From Here  Adrian Scott p181

[Biggles]

By the late afternoon though, the mountains had closed in again and I was riding deep down inside tight canyons on a twisting dirt track teetering precariously at times just above the roaring Pyanj River. The road had deteriorated now to a pulverised mess of gravel, rocks and fine grey powder. Recent landslides frequently spilled out onto the track too, making progress difficult and slow. In places the rock walls went beyond vertical and hung out over the river and the road had been blasted out of the rock face creating gigantic and extended granite eaves which I rode under very nervously, accompanied by the frighteningly loud reverb from my exhaust. What held them up? My, that's a big crack isn't it? What was that creaking noise? Would the noise of a motorbike engine (not heard here often) vibrate the rock ceiling loose? I held my breath instinctively as I rode carefully under particularly large blocks of granite.
The Road Gets Better From Here  Adrian Scott p208

[Biggles]

My back wheel fishtailed violently underneath me and I fought hard to regain control. I lost traction and speed, got bogged deep and then fell over. I cursed again. 
My chain and cogs were coated in tiny gritty granules like fresh sandpaper. The bike, with me on top was far too heavy to continue riding safely on the soft sand so I walked with the bike the last fifty metres or so off the dunes and I rode back onto the track.
I rode out high above the river; the track, carved into the mountainside narrowed, and became hard and rutted, dusted in a thin film of fine grey powder and sprinkled generously with loose gravel. I had to concentrate hard to steer a steady line, but when I did look up I was astounded to see a huge eagle gliding silently just a few metres above my head. It must have measured six feet from wing tip to wing tip. A thick beige stripe ran from one wing tip to the other in a shallow v-shape and then bled into its chocolate brown fuselage. It was majestic and I stopped to watch the beautiful creature glide effortlessly away, swept along by invisible eddies of wind.
The Road Gets Better From Here  Adrian Scott p210

[Biggles]

I ate two big bowls of thick delicious meat and potato stew with fresh bread and sweet tea with the other men. I never tired of these conversations where I explained what I was doing, why I was doing it and all of the other ancillary topics that spawned from them and tonight was no exception. A puzzled "Why?" was always the first question. Unlike almost everyone I met on my journey, I could, a) afford to travel, and b) probably travel anywhere I wanted and do anything I wanted - within reason. They knew this and the fact that I had chosen to come here and be with them now was astounding, and I sensed their pride as hosts by their unconditional willingness to share as much as they could of themselves and their culture with me and I felt privileged to be able to receive and experience it so directly. I reflected that like so many of my best experiences so far it was unplanned and spontaneous. 
The Road Gets Better From Here  Adrian Scott p211-2

[Biggles]

I rode directly into the huge blazing orange fireball of the setting sun and had to shield my eyes dangerously with my left hand while steering and maintaining the throttle with the other – I was tired and getting lazy and should have stopped. The road widened into a vast expanse of wide smooth and unmarked fresh bitumen and I sped up excitedly for the last hundred kilometres or so into Dushanbe in the crimson dusk that had now settled over the countryside. Just as I started to enjoy the smooth, easy riding, I was flagged down by two pot-bellied policemen, who came running out from under a tree waving a radar gun at me. I had no idea what the speed limit was, but knew I had been riding too fast and had resigned myself to being fined, but once they realised I was from Australia the conversation quickly turned to kangaroos, Kostya Tsu and crocodiles and, after I had told them that I had come all the way from Magadan - which of course they knew of - I was beyond reproach and immediately elevated to the pantheon of Tajik folklore. I shook their hands and they both slapped me hard on the back before I rode off into the dusk.
The Road Gets Better From Here  Adrian Scott p219

[Biggles]

Dushanbe was a watershed in my journey; it had been a complete break from the relentless riding and the hardships of life on the road. I now felt completely rejuvenated, my previously flagging confidence now soared and I felt my mojo, conspicuously absent to date, had finally arrived. Riding was instinctive now - the bike simply an extension of my body as I glided over the landscape on my exhilarating magic carpet ride.  The road continued to follow the narrow river valley and now rose above and away from the river. I hit some muddy road works in a busy but otherwise dusty village and then rode a lonely stretch of more difficult track before merging into a small secluded valley of striking Arcadian beauty. There were lush meadows filled with flowers and grazing livestock, a crystal clear mountain stream splashed gently over smooth rocks and ran away under a pretty stone arch bridge, an old carved wooden tea platform sat peacefully in a shaded glade by the riverbank and, in the distance, perched on a low hill overlooking this idyllic scene, stood an old stone farmhouse and compound. Beyond the bridge the road ended, abruptly forking at an obtuse angle into two equally unappealing stretches of dry loose gravel track, one rising steeply to the left, like an emergency truck stop ramp straight up the mountainside, and the other, which lead away more gently, but then rose up to meet an endless series of switchbacks slashed into the hulking mountains ahead.
The Road Gets Better From Here  Adrian Scott p233-4

[Biggles]

I cleared the village and rounded a hill high above the river and came to a temporary track, recently cut and graded that climbed steeply above the village. The track was loose, soft soil and I watched with some alarm as the fully-loaded jalopy bus ahead of me slid around on the treacherous surface, before being enveloped in the dust cloud that it spewed up. It was difficult to judge how long I spent on the track, or how high above the river it climbed, or how close I had ridden to the edge so intense was my concentration as I rode cloaked in a curtain of thick dust. Eventually, drenched in sweat and with my wrists throbbing painfully from the intensity of my riding, l emerged onto flat open higher ground where the track petered out into two feint tyre tracks as it crossed paddocks, orchards and fields. In a surreal scene, I came to a lone soldier who sat at an old wooden desk at the edge of an  apricot orchard where he manned a checkpoint over a cattle grate. A colourful dilapidated gypsy wagon sat forlornly in the far corner of the orchard. He inspected my papers without saying a word, until I broke the long silence asking simply "Penjikent?" He laughed and told me to keep going. I rode on through a large plantation of tall maize being harvested by sinewy sun-dried women who worked rhythmically removing the precious cobs, unhusked from their stalks, in another age-old back breaking ritual.
The Road Gets Better From Here  Adrian Scott p249

[Biggles]

The last few days had been wonderfully stimulating and I felt rejuvenated both mentally and physically, but it felt good to be back on my bike, moving again, almost like this was my natural state now. And riding three hundred kilometres after lunch across the parched plains and thirsty cotton fields of southern Uzbekistan didn't faze me either; I was slowly clearing the bogeymen that I had carried like deadweight for so long. Then I thought about the multi-coloured springs, homemade parts and agricultural blobs of welded scrap metal that currently held my clutch together and a big warning sign flashed in my mind: proceed with caution.
The Road Gets Better From Here  Adrian Scott p277

[Biggles]

Eventually the desert receded, quickly replaced by fertile farmland and rustic villages as the road converged again with the Amu-Darya. This was the ancient Oxus - and today it still sustains a narrow corridor of habitation and cultivation running in a gentle arc to the north-west, where it peters out in a semiarid delta as it trickles  into the rapidly receding Aral Sea. But the river here was full and wide and free flowing - albeit shallow and heavily silted - and I crossed it cautiously on a makeshift pontoon bridge of flat-bottomed barges, tied together and joined loosely by sliding metal ramps which sizzled like BBQ plates under the midday sun and moved dangerously underneath me as I negotiated each seam while battling the unforgiving and impatient oncoming traffic. But I didn't stop for fear of the rubber of my tyres and boots melting, and was soon safely across. I drove on through the modern, bustling but ultimately drab city-town of Urgench, before travelling the final twenty kilometres along the bizarre trolleybus route connecting the two towns. Massive and modern, it was an outrageous piece of expensive and unnecessary capital works designed solely to impress foreigners who had visited Khiva during its recent millennial celebrations and was now a white elephant.
The Road Gets Better From Here  Adrian Scott p301-2

[Biggles]

I squeezed the ignition and turned the throttle, but instead of the wonderfully comforting soft throbbing of internal combustion, all I got was a hoarse rasping cough and soft splutter and then a cold silence. I tried and tried and tried again with no success. Oh bugger. They both looked at me blankly, as if this was somehow not unexpected. I rested my arms on the handlebars and rested my head on them gently and closed my eyes - selfishly absorbed in my own misfortune. There was nothing left to do but push, so I mounted my bike and slowly heaved it forward with firm strides, pushing past my sleepy-eyed sentry and the now-bewildered hotelier. There was a large open area in front of the hotel where I paddled up and down repeatedly, desperately trying to build enough momentum for a clutch start- all of which ultimately failed. I looked at my watch - 8:45; I certainly wouldn't be meeting anyone, anywhere anytime today at this rate. Eventually my two comrades took pity on me and, without saying a word, came over and began pushing me tirelessly around the square until, after many failed attempts, the bike eventually groaned hesitantly into life. Exhausted, they stood breathless and steaming in the cold morning air, but smiled proudly as they waved me away merrily, and suddenly, I felt bad about my tainted perception of Nukus; I realised that like everywhere else I had been, people were almost always good at heart and predisposed to help a fellow human in need - the only difference here was the extent to which they had been worn down and hardened and had had the life almost completely sucked out of them by their environment and their bleak, empty prospects.
The Road Gets Better From Here  Adrian Scott p318

[Biggles]

In Iran...
But those first few minutes on the freeway were just a warm up act ahead of a mad main event as the half-crazed drivers of cars, buses and trucks all jockeyed for pole position in this deadly drag race across the desert. And it wasn't long before we passed the first of many fatal accidents; a crumpled mini-van and a battered family sedan lay near each other upside down on the rocky desert floor some fifty yards from the road, surrounded by a crowd of onlookers, emergency workers and distraught survivors. And it was difficult to understand how such an accident could occur on such a long straight stretch of one-way traffic across an empty desert; speed and driver error the only obvious reasons. But witnessing this carnage didn't seem to deter anyone, as our procession continued on at a breakneck 120kph (and this was in the slow lane). I could barely keep up, but, more afraid of the consequences of slowing down I pushed my bike even harder. And, with all the aerodynamics of a refrigerator, even a gentle cross breeze caught me like a wet sail and blew me around dangerously across, and then outside my lane. My arms began to ache from wrestling with the bike as I tried to maintain a constant heading into the teeth of the wind. I had never ridden so fast. I was in top gear and climbing through 6000 rpm, approaching the engine's red line - uncharted territory for both of us and, despite the emphatic assurances of the inscrutable Mr Shu - whose face I could see clearly now in my mind's eye - that nagging feeling that I was sitting on an time bomb that might explode at any minute filled me with a deep dark fear.
The Road Gets Better From Here  Adrian Scott p352

[Biggles]

But darkness descended quickly over the desert and it was a sprawling web of twinkling lights under an indigo sky that ultimately resolved into the large and surprisingly modern city of Shahrud. It also had a modern, well equipped and aggressive police force, most of whom greeted me at the end of the freeway explaining that it was in fact illegal to ride a motorcycle on an Iranian motorway. But with the cultural and language barriers just too high and too wide to bridge tonight, I was pardoned on account of my own ignorance and allowed to proceed. Navigating by instinct I negotiated a series of large roundabouts and found my way onto a bizarre avenue of pulsating neon palm trees, before finally emerging into the throbbing heart of Shahrud along a narrow dog-legged street clogged with traffic.
The Road Gets Better From Here  Adrian Scott p354