Mongolian Mountain Biking

A little over a week after my ankle sprain, sleeping horribly with the lack of excercise, my ankle feels well enough to take the community mountain bike out for a spin. A little excercise goes a long way, no matter how tired I feel because after this ride, I slept for 7 hours straight. After a week of only 4 hours, waking up and almost rolling off my cot, I ride up over the ridge to the south where I can see camp with great perspective. Yep, there's us in the middle of the Gobi, surrounded by more Gobi and wait...('hulee' in Mongolian)...um...oh, nope, just more Gobi. And I found out how to post bigger pictures so you can see just how big the Gobi is.



Skidding the sand with a cocked front wheel, I ride the ridge of volcanic rock downhill, struggling to stay in the single-track of a motorbike once I leave the upturned hard redstone; the only driver who found a firm way through the dry wash beds of fine sand that sink tires and would send me on a Gobi endo before I could say 'yukshte!'.

Down the ridge, I decide to take a bend and head east instead of downhill and south to the next valley of dry sand. East continues running the volcanic rise of bedrock that may be sharp and knotty but at least lets my tires grip so I can ride free across the desert. Ewen McGregor must have had a hell of a time keeping his motorcylce upright in these deceptively soft sands when he rode across Mongolia (read the book). I hope I can keep my crank sand free in this desolate and harsh land.

Just as I begin feeling a little too alone, I lose my balance and slow to a stop in the sand, turn around and notice a flock of sheep behind me. Where did they come from? And then comes into view a rock dwelling right in front of me - there really are sand people out here!




It's about time to head in, get a shower, watch 'Strangers with Candy' with the rest of the night-crew lads (our self-prescribed mandatory no shop talk social hour), and then go to sleep. On my way back, I see that someone's horses are grazing outside of camp and I spin quickly for the photo op.



When I return to camp, Oyuna is hanging a freshly washed sheet. I snap a photo as she awkwardly poses in front of the camera with a kind of not sure what to do when my picture is taken way and thanks me for the tourist shot, 'bayarlala'.



So the crew that I work with on the rig are a good bunch of guys and we work hard. We're all the same age except for Ultse who is only 20 and the victim of most of our jokes. We make sure we have heaps of fun, even if the wind is howling, heaving sand and it's below freezing, burning our cheeks. The Mongolians are used to it and you can see it etched in their faces, standing up to the cold with just a baseball cap and leather jacket, not even a flinch.

Not used to having a camera, Burged urges me to snap a photo of us three in the logging container when we have a breather between core runs. Here it is, Burged on the left and Ultse on the right.



We attempted a photo at night as the moon was setting but the long exposure only caught their spirit in motion. Here's Khukkenbataar, Burged and Ultse and the Mongolian moonset.



It's been an adjustment, but my Mongolian friends are growing on me. Now that I'm learning the language, I'm beginning to understand the culture a lot more.

I'll get some pictures of the expats around here too. Hopefully I'll catch them slacking off. Then I'll give them some Irish Spring deodorant soap to liven them up.