If you’re even mildly adventurous, seeing photos and stories from the Silk Road Mountain Race in Kyrgyzstan will set something alight in you. For a few years, I’d been one of those dot-watchers — following the race updates, feeling that deep, gnawing urge to be out there amongst it. This year, in the seventh edition, the stars finally aligned, and I found myself on the start line of one of the world’s most brutal and beautiful challenges.
The Silk Road Mountain Race is a 1,950km self-supported journey through the high heart of Central Asia — over 30,000 metres of climbing, almost entirely off-road, and with no outside help. You carry what you need, you fix what breaks, and you find food where you can. The fastest finish in under seven days; the rest of us fight to make it inside two weeks.
We set off at 6pm to dodge the 38° valley heat. I’d scouted the first few hundred kilometres — enough to know what I’d miss riding into the night. My strategy was simple: eat as much as possible, ride steady, and see where I landed by dawn. Somehow, I found myself in sixth by the first 3,700m pass, though I knew I had no business there. A cracked bottle, soaked shoes, a bent derailleur hanger — the usual early mistakes. By the following midnight, 373km in, I was done. I was searching for a quiet spot to bivvy when, out of nowhere, a local pulled up beside me and asked if I wanted a guest house. After 40 hours awake, 29 hours of racing I didn’t need asking twice.
The next morning, I was down to 18th place — and happy. I’d come to experience the race, not just endure it. Ahead lay the new 30km hike-a-bike section, a climb to 4,005m through one of the most remote and staggering valleys I’ve ever seen. It was slow, foot-based progress — technical, steep, and relentless. I topped out around midnight, hoping to descend quickly and find a camp. That hope died with the temperature, which dropped below -5°. My electronics froze, my body followed, and I crashed out on a sliver of ground with a punctured sleeping mat. I don’t think I’d call it sleep.
Morning came painfully. My shoes were blocks of ice. I waded rivers, crossed barren plains that never seemed to end, fuelled only by half a packet of biscuits and a chocolate bar. Somehow, I made it to Checkpoint 2 by nightfall — a warm yurt, a hot meal, and a brief return to feeling human.
The next day started with no mercy: the infamous Old Soviet Road — 30% gradients, barbed wire, and no clear reason it should even exist. I crested it, fought headwinds so fierce I had to pedal downhill, and limped into Naryn — the halfway mark. I washed, ate, slept, and reset. For the first time, I felt ready. Strong. Clear.
Then, 60km later, just as I reached the Arabel Plateau — the section I’d been most excited for — my shifter stopped shifting. I swapped batteries, re-paired devices, tried updates — nothing. A silent derailleur. A dead dream. I rolled back down the hill to find signal, hoping for a miracle. An old man with a gold tooth stood with me, both of us staring at the bike, shaking our heads. I thought briefly about rigging a single speed. But 900km of walking and spinning through the mountains? That wasn’t why I came.
And that was that. The abrupt end. From the highs straight into the lows. I’d made it just over halfway. I’d seen enough to understand why only half the field finishes. Enough to comprehend how extraordinary this race is — and how much it takes from you.
There are things I’d do differently next time. But top of the list? Bring a second pair of socks.
images @lloydjwright @usmanovdanilphoto @stephenshelensky