Editor’s note: Sedgwick native Levi Bridges and friend Ellery Althaus of North Truro, Mass., have embarked on a 10,000-mile cycling trip across Asia and Europe. Bridges is filing weekly updates for the BDN.
More than one year ago, I met a young American named Eric in Bogota, Colombia, riding a bicycle loaded with camping gear. He was a Harvard graduate and former computer programmer who had abandoned his comfortable life to seek adventure.
Eric’s goal was to cycle alone from the Arctic Circle in northern Alaska to the southern tip of South America. He had already spent a year riding through Alaska, Canada, the western U.S., Mexico, and Central America.
Eric became very excited when I told him about my dream of biking across Asia and Europe. We went out for lunch to talk about the endeavor in a small, run-down cafe near Bogota’s central plaza looking out on the Andes mountains.
“How much training do you recommend I do before starting?” I asked earnestly, speaking over a lively salsa tune blaring in the background.
“None,” he replied brusquely. “To be honest, I had hardly done any riding before starting this trip. I just knew I wanted to do it, so I flew to the Arctic Circle and went for it,” he said in a carefree manner while devouring a plate of rice and beans.
“Don’t get me wrong, the first few weeks are rough,” he warned. ‘But your body will quickly get used to it,” he said with a wise glimmering look in his youthful eyes.
“People you meet must be amazed by what you are doing,” I said.
He smirked.
“When I tell people about my trip, they usually just shake their heads and say, ‘Wow, that’s a long ways.’”
Nearly a year after we spoke, my riding partner Ellery Althaus and I began our trip on a cold April morning on the Pacific Coast of Russia. After an entire winter hardly riding my bicycle, we laboriously began climbing up and down coastal mountains on our first day. Each mile was a struggle. I could only get my heavy bicycle up each hill by pedaling in the easiest gear, stopping for frequent breaks. In these moments, I drew a sense of solace from my conversation with Eric in Colombia. It repeated in my head like a catchy advertisement.
“Don’t worry about training, you’ll be fine in a few weeks,” he had said.
“I just can’t wait to experience what riding this bike will feel like a month from now,” I said optimistically to Ellery while rubbing my sore muscles at the end of that strenuous first day.
Eighty-nine days have now passed since that arduous beginning and we have completed more than a quarter of our trip. The most remote sections of Russia with the worst roads now rest behind us. Some of the most difficult sections of this trip are over.
We begin our 89th day on the road speeding along a flat valley. A light rain falls gently upon my skin. It is a welcome relief at the onset of another muggy day.
For the past week, we have been slowly following a coastal road in eastern Siberia along Lake Baikal, the world’s largest freshwater lake. A steep mountain soon swallows the valley and I slowly begin climbing upwards. Before the first winding mountain turn, I stop to take in one last glimpse of the breathtaking green hills, which spill into this beautiful lake below.
Near me several old women sell fish by the roadside. I grew up on the coast and I feel comfortable on Baikal. I love how the cool breeze blowing off the water reminds me of my summers in coastal Maine. For an instant, I don’t want to leave; we won’t see another beach for almost 4,000 miles until we reach the Black Sea. But the road ahead invariably holds great experiences and new faces. I turn my head and hop on my bike.
Today we will witness a significant change in the landscape. For more than six weeks, we have crossed mountain ranges spanning northward out of China and Mongolia. This morning we will do a 6-mile climb and then continue over smaller mountains for 70 miles. By day’s end, we will descend from the mountains for good. During the next month, we will cross rolling hills, swamp, and steppe, the flat prairie land of western Siberia. Sluggishly moving up the mountain, I become excited by this development.
Halfway up the first climb, the light rain turns into a downpour. Even riding in heavy rain is a gift when traveling in a characteristically humid Siberian summer. Cool droplets of water fall on my shoulders with a heavenly sensation and drain down my arms in miniature rivulets. Near the mountain top, we stop to pump up Ellery’s rear tire, which has developed a slow leak. I stand, back arched, feet planted in the muddy hill, holding both bikes upright while he pumps the tire. My body is so hot from riding that slender wisps of steam radiate off it, floating amidst a torrent of summer rain.
Just before we reach the top, the rain stops and the humidity instantly returns. Soon I’m sweating again and can’t wait to feel the cool breeze of the first descent. Riding a bicycle over time only feels like a more and more efficient mode of transportation. I have learned to move through mountains as quickly as possible, shifting to the toughest gear to gain velocity down a hill, then maintaining my speed by moving to easier gears as I try to race up the next one.
My leg muscles are now specially trained to move the bike quickly. Bicycle travel feels efficient now, not slow. Running through the gears as I ride my bike reminds me of driving my old stick-shift truck. As we finish the 6-mile climb, I victoriously slam the bike into the toughest gear. The chain moves with a loud clank, like a door slamming shut or a gun being cocked, shattering the silence of the still mountain air. I am off, flying down the mountain like a bullet.
The combination of gravity and the incline of the hill pulling you and your bicycle downward is pure freedom. In a series of mountains like this, it is often over in an instant and you’re climbing up the next hill. You lose yourself in the rhythm of going slow and fast, fast and slow, shifting from a tough gear to an easier one, continuously moving forward.
By late afternoon, the traffic intensifies with people returning home after a weekend relaxing near Lake Baikal. They pass by me winding around mountain turns which curl like a piglet’s tail. Finally, the repetition of mountains is broken by a 5-mile descent onto flat land. I yell and scream with excitement as the bicycle effortlessly rolls down the mountain.
Reaching the bottom, I look back at the familiar sight of a small marsh standing below a backdrop of towering mountains. I will miss this beautiful section of Russia, but my excitement that we have successfully moved into another geographic zone replaces my nostalgia. ‘Eric was right,’ I think now, ‘bicycle travel does eventually get easier.’
That night, we arrive in the city of Irkutsk to rest. Over time, I have found that although the scenery changes on this trip, my interactions with people remain similar. When they see my bicycle with its huge orange panniers, they just want to know where you are coming from and where you are going. Answering this question can become monotonous.
Standing in the center of Irkutsk, a man approaches me and my bike with the same introductory query.
“We’re riding from the Pacific to Atlantic Ocean,” I say routinely in Russian.
The man just shakes his head.
“Wow, that’s a long ways,” he says.