3rd – 10th July 2026
We had opted not to stay in the hostel in Dushanbe where supposedly every cyclist stays before departing on the Pamir Highway. If we had, we would have learnt that the route option we were about to attempt was brutal. We approached the whole thing with such a naive sense of optimism; Ben assumed that given it was a “highway” it would a smoothly paved surface to the very end. I knew this not to be the case, and despite also knowing that I lack confidence on even the most compact gravel surfaces, I chose to turn a blind eye. Perhaps we both sensed that the only way we’d have any hope of cycling it was by being blissfully unaware.
Exactly 100 days after leaving Bristol we set off for the Pamir Highway. The first day lulled us into a false sense of security as the sprawl of Dushanbe continued far longer than its boundary with new build apartment blocks soaring either side of us, their facades decorated like wedding cakes. Forewarned by many online tales of scarse supplies along route I insisted we stop at one of the many shops which lined the road to buy oats like they were loo roll and it was March 2020. Despite a brief interlude involving us sharing a watermelon with two car loads of people whilst they seranaded us with a guitar from the boot of the car, we ended up covering more distance than we had intended. When we finally found spot to camp we found another cyclist settling into the relaxing evening with a book that it seems we can only dream of.
Alarm bells should have rung when our new Dutch friend, who’s name I can neither spell nor pronounce, and whom we could tell just to look at was a lot faster and more agile than us, asked us whether he could cycle with us the next day to do the river crossings together. River crossings plural. We agreed, and started to wonder whether we should have done a little more research before heading along our merry way. The next morning began with the road continuing to decieve us with relatively smooth asphalt. This would soon very much be a thing of the past.
What followed can only loosely be described as cycling. The road we followed was the old road, which seemed to have been abandoned quite some time ago on account of large sections of it having been swallowed up by rivers or landslides. To say I was out of my comfort zone was a vast understatement. The gravel was loose and the inclines sharp, and I was soon getting the best upper body workout I’ve had in a long time as I inevitably got off my bike and pushed. If I hadn’t needed to maintain some sense of decorum in front of our Dutch friend (miles ahead of us by this point) I’d have had a full on breakdown. Instead I had to content myself with a hushed sort of breakdown which I tried my best to disguise behind sunglasses. Whilst we lagged behind, Ben and I debated how on earth we had been foolish enough to think we could do this and whether it would be wise to give up and go home.
Somehow we managed to get to the broken bridges which marked the river crossings, even if it was a lot later than anyone expected. For me, the crossings themselves were fairly easy. Ben would tell a different tale. It was agreed without a single word being spoken that two people were needed to carry the bikes across, neither of which would be me. In previous times this would have caused more outrage than could be imagined, but having discovered that my bike fully loaded is as heavy as me, and having acquired two sprained wrists as a result of this, I’m starting to learn when to accept help. Both rivers were fast flowing and slightly unpredictable even with a fisherman showing us the safest path to cross. We had to take everything off the bikes before ferrying it all across separately, loading the bikes up again and then repeating the process on the second river.
The route back up to the road was almost as challenging as the crossings themselves; the road to the old bridge had collapsed leaving a very steep, narrow ridge which not one of us could navigate alone, and the process of ferrying our bikes was needed once more. Somehow, I didn’t find the afternoon quite as terrifying as the morning, and helped by a cool early evening breeze I ended the ride prepared to delay my retirement from cycling, at least for another day.
We cycled the next day alone, our friend politely excusing himself from riding at our very slow pace. Overnight we had drastically reduced our expectations of how far we would cycle, and this combined with a slightly more palletable road surface made the riding almost enjoyable. We were greeted enthusiatically by a shepherd at our proposed camping spot, who adeptly signed to us that it was fine to camp here and we quickly realised he was deaf. This had the affect of evaporating any language barrier and we had one of the easiest and free flowing conversations we’ve had to date with a non English speaker. He clearly loved understanding how things work and watched us put our tent with great interest, and was a lot more skilled at hammering in the tent pegs than I was. The next morning he came to say hello as he took out the cows to graze and we used stones to leave him a message (including a slightly demented looking smiley face) before we left which we hoped he found (and didn’t cause alarm or offense).
With every mile we cycled I was growing in confidence on the unpaved roads and Ben was beginning to actively enjoy them. We had our highest climb so far coming up (a mere 3,252m above see level) and we decided to stop for the night towards the beginning of it. After reading that bears frequent some of the nearby camping spots, we stayed at a guest house attached to a Mosque which we learnt had been funded by either the president of Chechyna or someone closely connected to him. The village children took great interest in us and would regularly knock on the door for a chat, even at 5.52 in the morning.
The rest of the climb was tough but, to my delight, not impossible. We travelled at a remarkably slow pace, reaching the summit hot and a little breathless not long after lunch. I am aware that what I am about to say is a phrase that we have gladly overused throughout the trip but the views on the descent really were the most spectacular of the trip so far. We wound our way down through a dramatic gorge with sheer drops down to clear waters below.
We tried and failed to stop at a picturesque riverside hotel which was fully booked with the occupants of tourist jeeps which had overtaken us during our descent. We were so tired by the time we finally got to the bottom of the hill that we were almost willing to be overcharged for the worst room in town. There was no sink in the shared bathroom, none of the lights worked and when we drew back the curtains we got a lovely view of the neighbouring bedroom. We would soon learn we had paid not just with money but an unspecified amount of time on the toilet to stay one night with dinner and breakfast.
From here our route followed the River Panj, the border with Afghanistan. It is a strange feeling to be so close yet so far away from another country. Despite us being near enough to hear the sounds of traffic, farm animals and the occasional shriek from children playing, the buildings with their mud walls and distinctive vibrant blue and green roofs were miles away from us. The different treatment of the river illustrated the mounting tension between the two countries. On the Afghan side the water was positively embraced with gardens cascading down to the waters edge, and children bathing and fishing in its muddy waters. The Tajik side was at various stages of constructing a razerwire topped fence stretching the entirety of the river and there was a regular rhythm of military bases and patrols along its banks. None of this could distract from the majestic mountains either side of us however, which would expand and contract to create either wide flood plains or tight gorges, causing our relationship with the neighbouring country to become more distant or more intense.
We were accompanied for this leg of the trip by a French cyclist, Greg, who had occupied the room our hotel window looked out on the previous night and who clearly had a very different appetite for risk to us. He insisted we go through a tunnel despite it being obviously closed (think cordons, locked gate and angry guard) because some cyclists we met going in the opposite direction had already done so. Ben and I reluctantly ignored our instincts and followed behind like school children not wanting to be called out as the nerds by the cool kid in class. The tunnel appeared closed for good reason: it hadn’t been finished yet. There was no lighting, open drainage channels and construction materials sticking out all over the shop. Despite all this, there was somehow still oncoming traffic, and we had to dive off what little tarmac there was to avoid it.
We emerged into the daylight to find we had to contend with a number of landslides. Most had happened quite some time ago, and were evidence only in well treaded paths through gravel to skirt around sizeable boulders blocking the newly surface road, however one in particular felt quite active. We saw dust clouds long before we saw the military marshaling traffic through a section of road, looking up at the rocks above every five seconds or so in an alarming manner to check it was still safe to pass.
All the good camping spots that day seemed to be over the river in Afghanistan. We stopped at a shop for water and luminous green ice lollies where a group of children showed us a peaceful little spot up in the fields behind the village. It was slightly less peaceful when they decided to spend the majority of the evening in the field with us, playing music (provided by them) and Frisbee (provided by Greg), but they were clearly kind natured boys who had given my bike a push up the hill without me asking, had a dog who obviously adored them and I slightly wished they could come with me on the rest of the Pamir Highway to give me an extra boost up the hills as needed.
The following two days went by in a hazy blur which resembled the clouds of dust which were released every time a car or truck passed us. Other cyclists were becoming a frequent occurrence, dispersing the tension that can grow between two people when they are physically and mentally exhausted and Snickers have become their main source of protein. The road went from bad to worse and back again. Despite the heat we looked like we were dressed for winter; long sleeves to protect us from the sun and buffs covering our faces to prevent us breathing in the dust. We somehow summoned the energy for a very long day where we arrived earlier than planned at Khorog for a long awaited rest, and much needed deliberation as to which route we’d take for the remainder of our journey through the Pamirs.
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