I met a few traveling motorcyclists on my way across the steppe, but no other cycle tourists. And the motorcyclists told me that they hadn't seen any other cycle tourists, neither ahead or behind me. It shouldn't have been a surprise as I already knew that not a whole lot of people cycle across the steppe. For one thing most cyclists heading east go straight from Kazakhstan to China, but it seemed even the other cyclists I'd met in Central Asia that were heading for Siberia were planning to take a bus or a train across the steppe. There is a reason for this. The steppe is a whole load of nothing, its just a huge big empty space. Its flat, a bit yellow, the occasional tree. And its like that for a thousand kilometres.

But for me the fact that it was such a massive load of nothing was the whole appeal. The only way to really know such an environment was to stand in the middle of it, to ride a bicycle across it, to be there, to feel it for all its nothingness. Before starting this trip I'd dreamed about cycling the vast empty spaces in Kazakhstan, it was one of the things that I was really looking forward to, and now I was living my dream. Admittedly, the reality as I cycled was that it was a bit on the boring side, the kind of dream that might put you to sleep. If that was possible. The kind of dream that was so boring it might make you fall more deeply asleep. Maybe put you into a coma.

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It was a case of 'be careful what you wish for' when the road left the foothills and headed out across the flat plain. Now without even the cheap thrill of changing gear every so often I had to find new ways to entertain myself. Inevitably it wasn't too long before I turned to poetry. Yes, I said poetry. I made up a beautiful poem as I went and shouted it out to the wind. Here are the first few verses:

Here I am in Kazakhstan,

Across the steppe I ride,

I'm on my way to Russia,

Across the plains so wide.

The steppe is vast and empty,

Dry yellow grass abounds,

And apart from swirling winds,

Silence here surrounds.

There isn't much to see,

There's a road and there's some grass,

Writing poems as I go,

Does help the time to pass.

My poem is going to be long,

Perhaps a hundred verses,

If life doesn't get more interesting,

It may well contain some curses.

Writing poems is a laugh,

Making them rhyme is fun,

Some people find that difficult,

But for me it comes quite easy.

I won't go on any further. I think by the end there were a hundred verses, although I didn't count them all. There were a few good ones in there though, on such diverse subjects as knitting, carrots, and Jeremy Clarkson. I won't bore you with the details though.

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As for the people of Kazakhstan, well some did occasionally stop their cars and get out to talk to me. For the most part, however, I found these interactions frustrating, as they seemed to be viewing me merely as something out of a freak show. They'd ask me where I was from and where I was going, ask to have their picture taken with me, and then get back in the car and all have a good laugh about me. Or so it seemed to my mind which had been turned into a paranoid and insane mush by the tedious boredom of my daily existence.

At one point, rather bizarrely, I passed some men selling fish in the middle of nowhere, who also stopped me to talk to them. Unfortunately without a common language I wasn't able to ask where in the world they got these fish from. I didn't buy any of their fish of course, because I don't eat fish, and because if I was going to eat fish again it wouldn't be out of the hot boot of a Lada that had been sitting in the middle of the desert all day. I admired them for their entrepreneurial spirit though.

Okay, by popular demand (no one has actually asked, but I assumed you would) here is the verse about Jeremy Clarkson:

Jeremy Clarkson off of Top Gear,

A man who thinks he's all that,

But everyone watching at home,

Can see he's clearly a twat.

I thank you, and goodnight!

26/07/14 - 122km

27/07/14 - 122km