Blog de Kaz VIII

23/07/08

Like so many Welsh rugby performances everything pointed to a thumping victory....up until the anthem.

26 days in the saddle had put me within striking distance of the finish line and, after careful deliberation, a rousing rendition of the Welsh national anthem seemed to me to be the most appropriate sign off. I have a Borat mankini with me but covering 500 miles in the last four days had put a dent in my sense of humour and the mere idea of mankini, saddle, sweat, beard is enough to bring a tear to my eye even now. Carrying it out would have probably got me arrested. Mae Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau would be the final act, and as the Duchess was saddled up for the last time there was relief all round that we would all soon be hearing that song for the last time. As every sports fan knows - it isn't over until the skinny ape-man sings.

So once more into the breach we went, promising myself that for the first time on tour I would not leave my entry into a city until after dark. It had been a constant torment that on the five times I had gone urban I had had to battle traffic chaos and map-reading in the dark. I'd like to say this was down to some outrageous misfortune but the simple fact is I have not managed to get up early enough. I'm in no better routine than I had at work - a 9:30 start of course, but you may find that the Duchess and I have been regularly tied up in meetings until 11 so probably best try us after lunch.

Feeling the vocal chords warming up on the last day I managed to haul myself out of the tent and onto the road by 8:45. The weather was looking good and the light that had occasionally flickered only dimly at the end of this wind tunnel was now fanned by a tickle of a tail wind. It was burning brighter than ever and I knew that within 10 hours we could reach Alma-Ata (Almaty - in Kazakh, the Father of Apples).

It is an indication of the effects of the trip that I considered covering 130kms in 10 hours to be an acceptable day's work. One thing that the tour had achieved was a complete re-calibration of my distance charts. I have got into the habit of considering 500kms to be "close" and the idea of not seeing another human for 100kms at a time to be normal. I have missed our crowded island.

But the last day was to be no different. Despite the fact that we were 100kms from the biggest hub in Central Asia, the map showed no settlements for 60kms, and the map had an annoying habit of being right about such things. I tried to imagine the days when London was surrounded by 50 miles of green (or in this case brown) emptiness, replacing Reading, Slough, Milton Keynes. I missed our crowded island a little less.

The road pushed on as it has for 4000km with the occasional hill to battle or bird of prey to attempt to photograph. It has been one of the more frustrating aspects of the trip that I have not managed to get a good shot of an eagle. I've seen dozens but they soar so high and aren't all that keen on posing. It's an upper class "Catch the Pigeon" sketch as I send the Duchess down banks and over pot-holes with eyes to the sky and camera in hand. Bob plays Muttley and sniggers unhelpfully.

Finally the Steppe came to an end. There were no sign posts, no fanfare. Having climbed gradually for what seemed like days the road just dropped away and the tufts of brown grass were replaced by trees and ponds. And there in the distance the majestic Tien Shan range suddenly came into view. Below it, cosied up to the vertigious rock like a student had tried to fit too much into his dorm room, sat Almaty, and my ticket to a world without cycling (for a while).

50kms seemed to be the general consensus as I took on a shashlik and frightened a few locals. By my calculations we had covered that distance 75 times before. The light was good, the legs were weary but aware of the importance of their role in all this, and so we pushed on for one more bike ride.

For 25kms it was a procession. Like the Lord Mayor's Show, no-one took much notice and it was a slow moving affair, but a procession nonetheless. We rounded a bend and came onto the best piece of asphalt I had been on all tour. The Duchess pulled at the reins, eager to get to the finish line. Speed was up, vocal chords at the ready. We were almost there.

Suddenly, from the true, straight furrow that the Duchess had effortlessly ploughed for four weeks, there was a list to the left, then back to the right. Through the saddle that had been the most effective (if sensitive) medium of communication of all road-level problems, I could feel that something had gone wrong. We were now bobbing up and down when the road was smooth. I turned for a glance at Bob. He gave me another malicious Muttley snigger. The back tyre had punctured.

It was a touching moment. My first puncture on the Duchess, and here in such picturesque surroundings. Since we were now into the suburbs there were a couple of locals on hand to ask pointless and repetitive questions about how a man in such a mess came to be in their village, but I got on with the job in hand. First, I looked for Earnst. Those who read the first blog will remember that it was Earnst who magically appeared on day one to pump up my tyres because my pump was faulty. Earnst was not around. It was back to Plan B - fix the puncture and pump up with m own faulty pump, which should get me the 25kms down the road.

Plan B swung into action. The Duchess bore the indignity of a repair job in such a public place well. I did not blame her for the puncture. It was not a happy time for any of us.

Within half an hour I was back on the road. The trouble was that I had had a close look at the kit and it looked like the back tyre might be shot. The songs I had been rehearsing in my head turned to prayers for 25kms more luck. I was ticking the kilometres off like hours of a work day and just trying to maintain a speed that would get me there before the back tyre went again.....it was also getting dark.

Finally, 10kms down the road, the moment I had been waiting for. A giant arch that formed the gateway to Almaty spanned across the dual carriageway. It was getting dark and I knew I had to get further into town to wrap this one up so I wasted no time in belting out the anthem.(Janet, I'm sorry to say that on this occasion, there was no warm-up, other than 4000km of heavy breathing if that counts?).

At rush hour on the main Almaty highway my little moment of pride did not provoke a huge crowd reaction. There was however one old weathered Kazakh who took an interest and came wandering over to a slightly uncomfortable distance given I was just reaching a crescendo. He looked at me perplexed, but sensibly waited until I'd finished crowing. I stopped, looked at him, he eyed me back turning his head slightly as if trying to look into and understand my very soul. "You need watermelon" he said. "A man singing like that on a bike needs watermelon"
"Well that's very generous of you" I said and launched into my "This is my last day, I've just cycled from Astrakhan" speech.
"Astrakhan!, this is your last day?!" he said suddenly freezing with his hands about to pick up the watermelon and turning sharply back to me "We get you lot coming from Paris, London, and cycling all the way to Peking. I thought you were going to China?"
"No, no. That's it for me 4000km ..." I began to explain before being drowned out.
"Well in that case," he said looking again at the fruits at hand, "have an orange", he said tossing me one from his stall and disappearing back into his Lada muttering and rubbing his head.

It was less than rapturous but I had made it. The back tyre lasted another 5km, before forcing me into a rather forlorn shuffle into town at 5mph with the flat flopping around on the rim. By the time I actually got to a hotel the whole thing had seized up and I was carrying the bike while pulling Bob behind. In 3 day old lycra, at 11pm, it was not what the cosmopolitan coffee terrace drinkers of Almaty were expecting.

Needless to say the hotel was not keen on the new arrival and only after a bit of the "No, your eyes do not deceive you, it is I, Alexander Davidovich Meredith, famous international cyclist before you and if you don't find me a room post haste then I will insist on pitching my tent right here in reception" speech that I finally got a bath, a cup of Tetley's tea and a bed.

The Tour de Kaz was thus completed. Many thanks to everyone for all your support, sponsorship and encouragement. I will visit the Children's Centre tomorrow and will post a blog on that and a few more thoughts on the tour once they have sunk in. For now it's Hoooorrrrrrah, Hoooorrrrrah and thrice Hooooorrrrrrah, I'm off to the bar to toast the steppe for an unforgettable contest.

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