Velocity

'New! Eat plastic!'

Atyrau, 1 October 2009

Hello!

About 6000 kilometres down the road, I steered my 'velo' to the next city: Atyrau. A city on the border between Europe and Asia, that is, if you want to determine the difference between the two continents geographically. Personally I feel that I entered Asia some time ago. But the river Ural is the geographical border so tonight, in room number 5 of hotel 'Kair' (the budget option with 18 euro's/night; in this oil town prices have risen to western levels), I will sleep in Asia for the first time this travel.

Last week I cycled from Volgograd to Atyrau. An interesting part that started with a turbo tailwind. Even though starting up in Volgograd appeared to be really hard, I managed to make up for lost time and made it to the border on 28 September, the day my visa became valid. Like I experienced also after the stay in Berdjansk and Volgodonsk, the muscles in my legs (especially those of the left one) need extensive time to warm up after a few non-cycling days. This 'warming-up'-phase comes with stinging pains. My body's completely stiff and pain shoots through my limbs whenever I do something strenuous (like taking stairs, or, the big one: swinging my leg over my cycle to get on it). At times like these I walk around like a penguin.

(Picture (category traffic signs): you could argue that the sign should have been placed 20 meters earlier, but overall I think it's pretty striking.)

So stairs are a problem and in Volgograd I was staying at the 8th floor. I guess you know where this is going.. by the time I was ready to go (6 bags packed, a well-greased chain, tension on the tires): +++ lift out of order +++ "Gulp!" (Me swallowing a couple of Dutch curse words.) I remembered taking a couple of stairs 'to flex the muscles' the day before, which I stopped doing after two stories because I could already feel the pain. After that I had troubles making my way to the supermarket. So now I would have to go down 8 floors with approximately my own weight in luggage (not possible in one time, so two times 35 kilogram with a steep climb in between) before I could start the day's ride. By the time I was standing in front of the flat with all my stuff, even the wobble of a penguin looked more gracious than my bungling. I couldn't go anywhere anymore. I parked my bicycle next to a bench with an old man on it, in order to try and sit down next to him. He must have thought I was making fun of him. Moving the way I did, is something you imagine with old people, not with a guy in a sportive outfit and a packed travel bike. As if my body was made of wood I lowered myself on the bench. I had hardly sat down, or the old man got hold of my arm. With force. "Hey", I cried out, but the man was to busy explaining me things about... I honestly don't know what he was trying to tell me, so I can only guess. Judging by his facial expression and strong grasp, I think he thought that I was a German ("Gholandia, Gholandia!", I was yelling at him) and that he had to tell me about the Volgograd battle that he lived through and maybe even participated in. But that's just my interpretation. What I do know for sure is that it was a tight spot where I found myself in, so my mind was stronger than my wooden legs and I lifted myself up and shuffled away. That day I made about 70K, with regular pauzes to stretch. But the next day I felt good again and the wind gave me wings. To illustrate:

So after a couple of nights camping and a beautiful ride eastwards, I found myself at the border with Kazakhstan. One of the surprises my father had up his sleeve when he arrived was the 'Team Astana' jersey that they used during this summer's 'Tour de France'. For those who don't know, Astana is the capital of Kazakhstan and one of the sportsmen of this équipe is the Kazakh: Alexander Vinokourov. I thought it would be a nice practical joke to arrive at the border wearing this national pride, but the douaniers didn't know how to react. Making pictures was out of the question unfortunately, and I could see them thinking: who is this guy?! The bus stop after the border crossing had fewer issues.

Another surprise my father had for me is my telephone. In a place as remote and desolate as Kazakhstan, it might be useful to be able to send out a signal in times of trouble, my parents must have thought. And I agree (now; a couple of months ago I was stubborn and unwilling to bring anything that reminded me of the '9-to-5'-rhythm of working life), so I got a Kazakh number: +77011332825. Cheers, gossip, love letters, stories, news head lines, trivial pursuit questions: it's all welcome!

From a more eccentric corner of my walkman to the OST of 'Cycling East' (a gift of my desert crossing friend Pete): Toshio Matsuura's remix of Ibrahim Abdullah's 'Did you hear that sound'. Rhythm of tailwind, melody of the vast Kazakh steppe.