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Henrik , a rider in our group struggled with his bags as he climbed the stairs to our dome . I smiled at the image and wondered if he knew of Sven Hedin , a fellow Swede who had explored this region in the 1800s and made it known to the West .
I failed to mention it to Henrik as he continued to drag his bag , I had no sympathy for my fellow riders , I was dying and had to contend with whatever had deposited in my riding pants throughout the day . The toilet in my room was the best seat I ’ d had for three days ; it was the last I saw of anyone that day .
I ’ d slept well for over twelve hours , only slightly disturbed by a vodka and cognac driven conversation by the riders earlier in the night . A heavy frost was across the ground , the morning air still bitingly cold , not surprising as we were still at around three and a half thousand metres . I felt no better .
The ride deeper into Kyrgyzstan provided one of the best roads the region has to offer . A winding series of switchbacks that first climb then descend the Taldyk pass , surely one of the world ’ s best motorcycling roads . The pass provided a glimpse into a reality that we were now on the homeward stretch and that Kyrgyzstan ' s second city of Osh was just down the road , albeit still a few hours .
One hundred and seventy kilometres that would take us through villages and towns that were clinging to tradition and yet moving into a modern world . As sheep and goats surrounded us on the main road I wondered what would become of these nomadic farmers as cell phone coverage increased and
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