Collaboration
Pas Normal Studios x PORTERThe Latest Stories
The Latest Stories
Writing and photography by Huang Xu
The first day out of Urumqi was almost gentle. We crossed the Gobi Desert on quiet roads, settling into the rhythm of long-distance riding.
That changed on day two. To avoid a busy road filled with trucks, we took S101. The scenery promised more, and I wanted a challenge. It became my own Midsummer Challenge: almost 200 kilometres and well over 3,000 metres of climbing.
There were few people, no resupply points and no detailed roadbook. Mountain after mountain appeared ahead, and the scale of the landscape made me feel very small. Beyond the fatigue, the hardest part was the uncertainty.
Halfway through, Pig Chop got into the support vehicle. I continued alone. I cramped. My blood sugar dropped. A local couple gave me boiled lamb and sugar, enough to keep moving.
Darkness arrived, but I had lights and still felt in control. Then came rain, slippery roads and wind. I didn’t know how much climbing remained. When a car stopped and offered a lift, I got in.
I had been approaching the final climb, but I wasn’t disappointed. Finishing at all costs isn’t always the point. Sometimes the stronger decision is knowing when to stop.
The next three days took us along the northern Duku Highway, through valleys, glaciers, snow-capped mountains and meadows. Streams, cattle and sheep appeared on the other side of high passes. At Hashilegen Daban, we reached 3,390 metres, the route’s highest point. By day five, we had covered 575 kilometres and climbed more than 8,000 metres.
At the top of one of the final mountains, I stopped to look out. All those small moments of persistence suddenly seemed to have a meaning.
Further west in Ili, the altitude dropped and temperatures rose towards 40°C. Freedom on a bicycle felt less romantic. Heat. Allergies. Fatigue. Water almost too warm to drink.
There are moments on a journey when everything begins to strip away. You could complain, try to escape, or accept where you were and continue.
In Tekes, I changed the route. Three years earlier, before becoming a cyclist, I had spent an afternoon with three children in Qiongkushitai. Before leaving, I promised: “I’ll definitely come back to see you.”
For three years, that promise stayed with me. Now I was close enough. Returning meant another 93 kilometres, more than 2,000 metres of climbing and four mountains.
Pig Chop had planned to rest in Tekes. But the night before, he began packing.
“I think this is your pilgrimage,” he told me. “I respect that, and I’ve decided to follow you.”
We set off on narrow roads in intense heat. People shouted encouragement as we passed. Two idiots on bicycles, trying to cross four mountains.
Halfway through, Pig Chop was struggling with fatigue and knee pain. Feeling guilty, I suggested he stop at a guesthouse while I continued. He refused. We crossed all four passes together.
In Qiongkushitai, a driver who had seen us leave Tekes couldn’t believe we had cycled all that way.
Then I remembered travelling this road by car three years earlier. I had leaned out of the window to shout “Keep going!” at two cyclists. I didn’t even ride then. I thought they were crazy.
Three years later, those two cyclists had somehow become Pig Chop and me
The Yizhao Highway brought one of our hardest days. Rain, altitude and cold. Halfway up, we stopped to put on down jackets. Our hands and feet were going numb, but after more than a week together, I trusted our little team. We kept climbing.
Grasslands, forests, snowy mountains and canyons appeared through the rain. Every season in a single day. At Angliete Daban, more than 3,000 metres above sea level, the sky cleared.
Later, after a long descent, a car lost control and crashed in front of us. It scared the hell out of us.
But the moment I remember most was quieter. At the summit, I had been standing alone beside the guardrail when Pig Chop put his hand on my shoulder and smiled.
“We made it over. F**king hell, we actually did it.”
For almost two weeks, Sayram Lake had been the destination. When we reached it, I kept taking detours. I was trying to make the journey last. I didn’t want it to end.
We had crossed deserts in 40°C heat and mountain passes in rain and cold. There had been fear, fatigue and moments when continuing seemed stupid. But also strangers who helped, encouragement from the roadside and moments we could never have planned.
Around 60 kilometres into our final ride, storm clouds gathered behind us. Pig Chop and I took turns on the front, riding the final kilometres hard. An hour later, torrential rain and hail arrived. A fitting finish.
Thirteen days. 1,300 kilometres.
15,000 metres of climbing.
This ride is over, but our love for cycling is most certainly not. That’s the most important thing.
